j  \ 


•I, 


,V- 

THE% 


BOY  OF   MOUNT   RHIGI. 

"DO    THE    DUTY    NEAREST    TO    1OU.» 


BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF   "REDWOOD,"   "  POOR   RICH   MAN," 

•"  H0JHE,"-.  ETC.,    ITTC. 


BOSTON: 
CROSBY    AND     NICHOLS. 

1862. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  ol  Congress,  in  the  year  1847,  by 

CHAIiLES   H.   PELKCE, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office   of   the    District  Court   of    the    District 
of  Massachusetts. 


•TERfcOTVPED    AT    TUB 
ft»»tO*    TYPE    AND    STIJREOTTPE    FOI/NOJ  f 


4 


fS 


DEDICATION. 


TO    JOSEPH    CURTIS. 

PERMIT  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  dedicate  this  book  to 
you ;  and,  in  this  mode,  to  express,  a  second  time,  my 
respect  for  one  who  has  devoted,  and  is  devoting,  a  good 
portion  of  his  life,  without  the  reward  of  money,  or  the 
fee  of  celebrity,  to  the  advancement  of  our  young  people, 
the  hope  of  our  country. 

C.   M.   SEEGWICK. 

NEW  YORK,  May  22,  1848. 


M174958 


PREFACE. 


THIS  little  book  is  the  first  of  a  series  to  be 
published  by  Mr.  Charles  H.  Peirce  for  the  young 
people  of  our  country,  —  for  that  ground  in  which 
we  sow  hopefully  and  with  promise. 

The  history  of  the  poor  "  Bov  of  Mount 
Rhigi "  and  his  friend  "  Harry  Davis,"  has  been 
written  to  awaken,  in  those  of  our  young  people 
who  have  been  carefully  nurtured,  a  sense  of 
their  duty  to  those  who  are  less  favored  ,  to 
show  them  that  the  ignorant,  neglected,  and 


6  PREFACE. 

apparently  vicious,  have  the  germs  of  goodness 
in  their  souls  ;  that  patience,  kindness,  and  af 
fection,  will  fall  like  holy  dew  upon  them,  nour 
ishing  that  which  God  has  implanted. 

That  the  safety  of  the  republic  depends  on 
the  virtue  of  the  people,  is  a  truth  that  cannot 
be  too  assiduously  taught;  and  that  it  is  the 
business  of  the  young,  as  well  as  of  the  oli,  to 
help  on  the  cause  of  goodness,  cannot  be  too 
strongly  impressed. 

Perhaps  some  young  persons  may  feel  more 
deeply,  after  reading  the  following  story,  than 
they  have  felt  before,  what  are  their  true  riches ; 
that,  if  they  have  no  money  to  give,  they  have 
a  treasure  to  impart  in  the  example  of  truth, 
honesty,  fidelity,  and  industry ;  and  in  the  action 
of  hope,  patience,  and  kindness.  If  this  story 


PREFACE.  7 

invigorates    the    faith   of    the    fortunate,   and   saves 
from   despair  but   one   of  the   wretched,  it  will  not 
have  been  written  in  vain. 
NEW  YORK,  July  17,  1848. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

BOYS'  SPORTS, .   13 

CHAPTER    II. 
THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON, 36 

CHAPTER   III. 
BERRYING, 52 

*            CHAPTER   IV. 
A  CONFESSION, 68 

CHAPTER   V. 
A    VOICE   FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND, 89 

CHAPTER    VI 

A  GATHERING  STORM 1 00 


10 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   VII 
A  TOTAL  ECLIPSE, 122 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
A  CHANGE  OP  SCENE, 134 

CHAPTER   IX. 
HARRY'S  FIRST   LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK, 142 

*                CHAPTER  X. 
JAIL  COMRADES 165 

CHAPTER  XI. 
A   CLERK'S  TRIALS, 177 

CHAPTER  XII. 
THE  BOOK-KEEPER, 192 

CHAPTER   XIII. 
LIFE  IN  JAIL  —  A  SURPRISE, 208 

CHAPTER   XIV. 
A  DYING  CONFESSION, 219 


CONTENTS.  11 
CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  REUNION, 228 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  DECISION, 237 

CONCLUSION, 247 


THE   BOY  OF  MOUNT  EfflGI. 


CHAPTER    I. 
BOYS'    SPORTS. 

"  One  touch  of  nature 
Makes  the  whole  world  kin." 

is  a  certain  portion  of  the  Tahconnick  range 
-JL  of  mountains,  in  the  western  part  of  Massachu 
setts,  called  Rhigi,  said  to  have  been  thus  named  by 
Swiss  emigrants  who  settled  there,  and  who  probably 
came  from  the  neighborhood  of  Mount  Rhigi,  in  Switzer 
land,  one  of  the  beautiful  resorts  of  that  most  beautiful 
land.* 

*  There  are  other  similar  traces  of  Swiss  settlement  in  thii 
neighborhood.  Bash  Bis/i,  the  lovely  fall  now  becoming  knows 
and  celebrated,  is  a  corruption  of  a  very  common  Swiss  name  of 
their  minor  falls.  The  love  of  the  father-land  is  expressed  b> 
the  names  the  emigrant  gives  to  the  land  of  his  adoption.  Thf 
Pilgrim  bestowed  on  the  New  England  settlements  the  name» 
of  his  old  England  home  —  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  Boston,  North 


SrORT. 


Rhigi  deserves  the  name  which  the  loving  wanderers 
from  their  father-land  gave  to  it.  Like  its  prototype,  it 
overlooks  a  land  of  hills  and  valleys,  rivers  and  lakes. 
Its  woodlands  echo  to  the  pleasant  sound  of  the  brooks 
that  glide  down  its  declivities,  and  in  its  solitudes  there 
are  small  lakes  —  bright  mirrors  of  the  stars  —  known  to 
few  except  the  sportsmen  who  frequent  them. 

Near  the  summit  of  the  mountain  there  is  a  furnace, 
and  around  it  a  scrambling  village  inhabited  by  colliers, 
and  forgers,  and  the  loafers  *  who  are  usually  attracted 
about  a  place  of  this  description.  Behind  the  village,  and 
sunken  rather  below  its  level,  and  separated  from  it  by 
an  intervening  morass,  is  a  bit  of  water,  precious  to 
the  sportsman,  for  it  is  excellent  fishing-ground  for 
sunfish,  perch,  and  pickerel. 

On  a  certain  September  day,  two  boys  were  fishing 
together  on  the  margin  of  this  pond.  One  was  a  fair- 
naired,  fair-skinned  boy  of  fifteen,  with  rather  noble  fea 
tures,  expressive  of  truth,  decision,  and  good  temper.  He 

ampton,  Stockbridge,   &c.,  and  the  New  Englander  repeats 
them  in  his  new  home  in  the  far  west. 
*  Low  fellows. 


BOYS'  SPORT.  15 

was  tall  of  his  years,  and  spare.  His  dress  was  frugal 
and  very  neat,  though  it  was  Saturday  afternoon,  when 
the  accumulation  of  a  whole  week  makes  usually  a 
frightful  amount  of  dirt  on  a  rustic  boy's  clothes. 

His  companion  was  a  year  younger  than  himself,  and 
shorter  by  half  a  head.  He  looked  strong  and  agile,  his 
muscles  and  sinews  being  well  developed  and  wrought 
by  those  best  of  all  agents  in  such  work,  exercise  and 
pure  air.  His  skin  was  weather-tanned,  nut-brown ;  his 
hair  hung  in  tangled,  dark  masses  of  curls.  Beneath 
them  looked  out  an  eye  as  keen  as  an  eagle's.  His  nose 
and  mouth  were  handsome,  and  about  the  mouth  there 
was  a  love  of  fun  and  good-fellowship,  an  expression  of 
humor  and  kindliness,  that  were  'in  strange  contrast  with 
a  contraction  of  his  brow,  and  an  expression  of  vigilant 
anxiety,  that  gave  him  a  look  of  age  beyond  his  years. 
The  boys  stood  on  a  projecting  crag  that  hung  over  a 
deep  pool  of  water.  An  old  oak,  scathed  by  lightning, 
and  wreathed  by  a  pendent  grape-vine,  overshadowed 
them.  The  oak  was  flanked  by  a  thick  ascending  wood 
land,  through  which  wound  a  foot-path  to  the  spot  where 
the  boys  were  standing  -It  was  a  still,  cloudy  day,  such 


iO  BOYS      SPORT. 

as  fishermen  love,  and  they  had  rare  luck ;  the  shorter 
boy  far  better  than  the  other,  for  as  fast  as  he  threw  his 
line  in,  it  dipped,  and  out  he  drew  it  with  a  sunfish  or 
perch,  and  now  and  then  a  pickerel. 

"  Can  any  body  tell  me,  Clap,"  said  his  companion  to 
the  shorter  boy,  "  why  you  catch  so  many  more  fish  than 
I  ?  Here  I  stand  as  still  as  a  tombstone,  and  I  manage 
precisely  as  you  do,  and  I  have  not  had  a  real  bite 
for  half  an  hour,  and  you  have  taken  ten  fish  in  that 
time.  It's  too  bad." 

"  There's  a  fellow ! "  replied  Clapham,  without  direct 
ly  solving  his  friend's  question.  "  I  never  before  caught 
such  a  strapper  as  that,  fishing  off  shore.  You  see, 
Hal,  I  know  just  how  to  humor  them.  Fishing  comes 
by  natur.  Dad  says  so,  and  I  believe  it.  The  fish 
know  us.  They  know  there's  no  kind  of  use  in 
dodging  our  lines." 

"I've  got  you!"  exclaimed  Hal,  and  jerked  up  his 
line.  The  fish  was  off. 

"  That's  no  way,  Hal,"  said  Clapham,  coolly  throwing 
up  his  line,  with  a  large  fish  struggling  on  it.  "  You 
are  a  prince  at  reading  and  writing,  and  such  notions, 


BOYS      SPORT.  17 

Hal :  hut  for  fishing,  diving,  and  shooting,  you'll  never 
be  a  match  for  me.  You  come  on,  though,  a  bit; 
you've  a  dozen  fish  there — hoy?" 

"Yes;  but  what  is  that?     You've  full  fifty." 

"  Thereabouts  —  and  I  am  worth  fifty  times  as  much 
as  you  — at  fishing,  Hal.  There! — there !  — there's  a 
bite  —  the  fellow  will  scud  off  with  line,  pole,  and  all. 
Ah!  ah!  See!  see!  see,  Hal."  The  boys  leaned  over 
the  bank  to  watch  a  very  large  pickerel,  that  was  warily 
playing  with  Clapham's  bait.  He  "  nibbled  gloriously, 
but  did  not  swallow  the  bait. 

"He  knows  you,  Clap,  a  little  too  well!"  said  Hal. 

"I'll  have  the  sarpent,  yet,"  muttered  Clapham. 

While  the  boys  were  thus  intently  occupied,  a  tall 
broad,  heavy-framed  man  came  down  the  shady  foot 
path  behind  them,  with  a  string  of  game  over  one 
shoulder,  and  a  gun  at  the  other.  As  much  of  a  brim 
as  remained  to  his  torn  hat,  was  slouched  over  his  eyes. 
His  hair,  half  gray,  half  still  coal-black,  was  straight 
and  tangled,  and  his  face  was  unshaven  enough  for  an 
Austrian  soldier,  or  a  city  coxcomb.  He  had  on  a  coarse, 
red  flannel  shirt,  without  waistcoat  or  over-coat  of  any 


18  BOYS'  SPORT. 

sort,  satinet  trousers,  filthier  and  more  ragged  tha.ft  his 
shirt,  and  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  knotted  around  his 
Imllock  throat.  A  rare  figure,  indeed,  he  presented  for 
our  country  parts,  where  every  man  can,  and  most  men 
do,  wear  decent  clothes. 

He  trod  warily,  as  he  approached  the  boys.  He 
needed  not,  for  they  were  too  much  absorbed  to  heed 
him.  There  was  a  keen  glance  from  his  eye,  and  a 
malignant  grin  on  his  thin,  close-set  lips.  Ha.ving  got 
close  to  Clapham,  he  gave  him  a  kick  with  his  broad, 
bare  foot,  which  sent  him  off  into  the  water,  growling 
out,  as  he  did  so,  "  There,  go  to  the  devil,  and  learn  next 
time  to  do  what  I  bid  ye ! " 

The  suddenness  and  violence  of  the  blow  deprived 
Clapham  of  all  power  of  exertion.  He  was,  in  fact, 
stunned,  and  was  sinking  without  an  effort,  when  Harry, 
shouting  to  him  in  a  desperate  voice,  plunged  after  him, 
and  brought  him  to  the  surface.  Clapham,  though  used 
as  a  fish  to  the  water,  had  quite  lost  his  self-possession, 
and  he  grasped  his  friend  instinctively.  The  boys  were 
in  damr3r  of  sinking  together.  "Good  enough  for  'em," 
said  the  half-drunk,  brutalized  wretch.  Harry  struggled, 


BUY&      SPOK1  It) 

and  managed  to  keep  both  their  heads  above  water  till 
Clapham  had  sufficiently  recovered  his  self-command 
to  remain  passive.  Harry  then  dragged  him  to  the 
shore.  In  a  few  minutes  more,  Clapham  was  himself 
again,  though  still  ghastly  pale.  He  shook  off  the 
water,  and,  turning  to  the  man,  who  looked  at  him  as 
he  would  have  looked  at  a  dog  in  like  circumstances, 
he  said,  "Dad,  that  wasn't  fair." 

The  fattier  laughed  hoarsely,  and  walked  on. 

"  Now  that's  a  father  for  a  boy  to  have ! "  said  Clap 
ham,  gazing  after  him,  shaking  his  fist,  and  dashing  off 
a  tear,  that,  in  spite  of  his  hardihood,  his  sense  of  his 
father's  brutishness  drew  from  him.  "  I'll  pay  him.  if 
ever  I  grow  up  —  I  will." 

"  O,  hush,  Clap  —  he's  your  father,"  said  Harry. 

"There's  no  hush  to  it,  Harry.  I  will.  You  don't 
know  nothing  about  him  —  you  don't  begin  to  know 
him.  He  a  father!  He  makes  me  fetch  and  carry  for 
him  till  I  am  as  tired  as  any  dog.  He  makes  me  lie  for 
him,  and  —  and  steal  for  him;  and  if  I  don't,  he  trios 
to  drown  me ;  and  he  would,  if  you  had  not  jumped  in 
after  me.  How  could  you  do  it,  Hal  ?  I  wan't  worth 


20  BOYS'  SPOUT. 

it;  and  besides,  don't  you  know  that  man  or  boy,  that's 
stunned  and  drowning,  will  pull  you  in?" 

"Yes,  I  know  that  well;  but  I  could  not  stand  still 
an!  see  you  sinking.  There  are  no  two  ways  about 

that." 

"No,  you  could  not — it  would  not  be  you  if  you  did, 
Hal.  I  never  shall  forget  this  —  you  see  if  I  do."  The 
rough  little  fellow's  phrases  had  not  much  in  them,  but 
his  brimming  eyes,  his  flushed  cheek,  and  his  quivering 
lips,  filled  out  his  meaning  as  he  proceeded.  "  I  don't 
know  so  much  as  you  do,  by  a  great  sight;  but  there 
may  come  a  time  when  I  can  do  you  a  good  "turn,  and 
you'll  find  me  as  ready  as  water  is  to  run  down  hill." 

"You  always  have  been,  Clap;  so  we  stand  but  even 
now.  Talking  of  water  running  down  hill,  suppose  we 
fish  along  down  stream  going  home  ? " 

"  Agreed.  The  trout  will  bite  as  sharp  as  steel  this 
afternoon.  I  don't  care  how  late  I  get  to  our  den:  late 
or  early,  I  shall  only  get  a  shaking." 

The  boys  gathered  up  their  fishing-tackle,  slung  their 
fish  over  their  shoulders,  and  pursued  their  way  towards 
'  the  brook.  After  walking  on  for  a  few  moments  in  si- 


21 

lence,  Clapham  suddenly  stopped,  and,  laying  his  hand  on 
Harry's  shoulder,  said, "  May  be,  Hal,  you  think  me  a  chip 
of  the  old  block ;  but  I'm  not  —  altogether ;  and  if  I  had 
any  thing  fit  to  be  called  father  and  mother,  I  should  not 
be  very  different  from  folks.  When  I  have  heard  your 
father  speak  to  you  friendly,  and  seen  your  mother's 
doings  —  your  mother  is  complete  —  I  have  had  feel 
ings  —  I  have.  I  have  had  more  than  one  crying  spell, 
thinking  of  my  bad  luck  in  a  father  and  mother." 

"It  is  bad  luck,"  replied  Harry.  "But  come  along, 
let's  fish  a  little  now.  We  must  soon  be  going  home. 
Mother  is  ahvays  anxious  if  I  stay  out  after  dark. 
Mothers  always  are,  you  know." 

"  Some  mothers,"  replied  Clapham,  with  an  accom 
panying  sound,  half  groan  and  half  growl. 

Harry  took  no  notice  of  this,  and  the  boys,  after  hav 
ing  stopped  to  fish  at  quiet,  shady  places,  pointed  out 
by  Clapham  as  favorite  trout-haunts,  and  having  each 
added  a  string  of  these  favorite  fish  to  their  sport 
ing  treasure,  hastened  homeward.  When  they  well 
could,  they  kept  to  the  margin  of  the  brook ;  but,  where 
they  met  with  obstruction,  from  steep  rocks  or  tangled 


22  BOYS'  SPORT. 

shrubbery,  they  dashed  into  the  channel,  leaped  from 
stone  to  stone,  and  shouted  in  accord  with  the  joy 
ous  mountain-stream. 

Clapham,  boy-like,  forgot  the  trouble  that  had  made 
him  so  miserable  a  half  hour  before.  The  leaden  clouds, 
which  had  hung  over  them  all  day,  were  breaking  away, 
and  rolling  off  in  separate  masses,  dyed  with  shades  of 
yellow,  purple,  and  rose  color,  by  the  setting  sun;  and, 
intermingling  with  the  deep  blue  sky,  they  were  reflected 
like  pictures  in  the  brook ;  where,  set  back  by  a  dam  of 
rocks,  it  offered  to  these  lovely  and  ever-changing 
images  a  glass-like  mirror.  The  boys  had  planted  their 
feet  on  a  little  bit  of  an  island,  around  which  the  water 
gurgled;  and  Clapham,  turning  his  eyes  from  the  brook 
to  the  wooded  hills,  lit  up  with  a  shower  of  golden  light, 
said,  "  Hal,  is  not  this  here  brook  a  pretty  kind  of  look 
ing-glass  ?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,  and  a  first-rate  beauty  looking  in  it 
now.  Trout-fishing  in  such  a  brook  as  this  beats  the 
world.  I  read  an  anecdote,  the  other  day,  of  a  man 
who  went  wade-fishing  in  such  a  place  as  this,  and  got 
the  gout  in  his  stomach.  The  doctor  told  him  it  would 


BOYS'  SPORT.  23 

kill  him  some  day.  *  The  Lord's  will  be  done,'  he  said ; 
'but  I  can't  give  up  wade-fishing.'  I  think  —  don't 
you,  Clap? — that  half  the  pleasure  is  in  the  pleasant 
places  we  go  to?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  never  thought  of  it  I  somehow 
feel  better  when  I  am  out  in  sleek  places  —  if  father 
ain't  with  me." 

"But  had  you  not  much  rather  come  by  the  brook 
than  by  the  road?  and  don't  you  stop  and  look  at  tho 
falls?" 

"  Why,  yes,  I  do.  The  brook  is  lively  kind  o'  com 
pany ;  and  the  falls  are  pretty  sleek,  —  but  nothing  to 
Bash  Bish  Falls.  !•  spent  one  whole  day  clambering 
up  to  the  'Eagle's  Nest.'  Looking  down  from  there  is 
kind  o'  wonderful.  I  forgot  my  fishing,  and  went  to 
sleep,  and  I  had  a  dream  there  —  I  tell  you,  Hal ! 
When  I  waked,  the  stars  were  shining  on  me.  I  got 
a  rapper  when  I  came  home,  though." 

"What  did  you  dream,  Clap?" 

"  I  dreamed  I  was  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  fall,  almost 
naked,  and  awful  hungry.  I  had  lost  my  way,  and  did 
not  know  how  to  get  back  amongst  folks.  1  heard  a 


«4  BOYS      SPORT. 

voice  say,  'Look  up,  and  see,  way,  way  up,  where  the 
water  first  springs  over  the  rock :  there  you  must  go. 
Sheer  up  where  the  stream  comes  down.  There  is 
no  othor  way.  If  you  look  back,  you'll  come  crash 
ing  down;  but  keep  your  courage  up,  and  you  will 
get  safe  to  the  Eagle's  Nest,  and  find  there  every  thing 
you  want  in  life.'  Now,  you  know,  as  it  was  a  dream, 
its  being  impossible  did  not  stop  me:  so  straight  on  I 
went,  the  water  spattering  me  and  roaring  in  my  ears. 
I  saw  lions  and  tigers  sticking  out  their  heads  between 
the  trees,  and  growling,  and  cat-o'-mounts  on  the 
branches  ready  to  spring  on  me,  and  snakes  crawling 
and  hissing  along  the  rocks,  and  a  toad  with  a  face 
just  like  my  father's.  O,  I  tell  you,  Hal,  that 
scared  me.  But  I  did  keep  on. 

"You  have  not  seen  Bash  Bish,  Hal?  Well,  the 
last  leap  of  the  water  is  on  each  side  a  rock  that 
springs  up  to  a  sharp  point,  and  on  that  point  I  stood 
as  if  I  had  wings  ;  but  wings  I  had  not,  and  how  to 
get  off  I  did  not  know.  There  was  a  buzz  of  voices 
all  around  me.  They  came  out  of  the  water,  and  out 
of  the  trees,  and  one  word  they  all  spoke  —  'On!  on1' 


BOYS'  SPORT.  25 


What  to  do  I  did  not  know.  There  was  no  place  my 
foot  could  reach,  no  branch  of  a  tree  I  could  get  hold 
of.  I  had  a  kind  of  feeling,  —  I  suppose  Elder  Briggs 
would  call  it  faith,  —  that  if  I  believed  the  wcrda,  and 
looked  up,  I  should  go  safe.  So  I  fixed  my  eye  on 
the  Eagle's  Nest,  and  gave  a  spring  up,  and  suddenly 
there  dangled  before  me  a  bright  cord,  that  looked 
as  much  like  forked  lightning  as  any  thing.  I  caught 
hold  of  it,  and  swayed  back  and  forth  ;  I  curled  up 
like  a  spider,  but  I  did  not  look  down;  I  held  fast, 
and  felt  myself  drawn  up;  and  I  looked  up  to  the 
Eagle's  Nest,  and^.  there  stood  a  little,  fat  angel,  just 
such  as  they  have  on  the  tombstones  ;  she  held  the 
cord,  and  smiled  so  friendly!  Up,  up  I  went  like  a 
lark;  but,  as  I  came  nearer,  the  angel  seemed  to 
melt  into  solid  light,  that  shone  on  the  trees,  and 
down  the  falls,  down  into  the  very  bed  of  the  stream, 
and  clear  away  where  it  winds  and  turns  like  a  snake  ; 
and  it  wag  not  fire-light,  nor  sun-light,  but  brighter, 
more  like  aghtning  of  a  dark  night.  But  what  was 
queerest  of  all,  there  was  a  table  set  out  with  roast 

pig,    and    turkey,    and    pumpkin    pie,   and    mince,   and 
3 


26  BOYS'  SPORT. 

every  thing  like  Squire  Allen's  thanksgiving  day.  Just 
then,  I  waked,  and  there  I  lay,  flat  enough,  hun 
gry  as  a  hound,  at  the  foot  of  the  faL.  Wasn't  it 
a  drollish  dream  ?  " 

"Yes;  and  perhaps  it  will  come  to  pass." 

"Come  to  pass!" 

"O,  I  do  not  mean  your  dream  exactly,  but  some 
thing  that  your  dream  is  the  sign  of;  as,  when  Joseph, 
in  Scripture,  you  know,  dreamed  that  his  brothers' 
sheaf  made  obeisance  to  his  sheaf,  it  was  a  sign  tie 
would  rule  over  them,  and  so  forth." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  Scripture  stories,  Hal; 
but  tell  me  what  my  going  up  those  rocks,  and  tho 
tigers,  and  so  forth,  and  the  .little  chubby  angel,  and 
the  roast  pig,  could  be  a  sign  of." 

"Not  really  signs,  Clap.  The  times  have  gone  by, 
mother  says,  when  God  teaches  men  by  dreams;  but 
yours  set  me  thinking,  and  so  your  scramble  up  that 
mountain  seemed  to  me  the  difficulties  you  have  to 
struggle  with  in  breaking  off  your  present  way  of  liv 
ing  ;  and  the  voices  were  God's  urging  us  every  way  to 
do  right  •  and  the  lions  and  snakes,  and  so  forth,  are 


BOYS'  SPORT.  27 

the  discouragements  in  your  way ;  and  the  cord,  that 
came  to  your  aid,  is  the  help  that  always  comes  if 
you  help  yourself;  and  the  roast  pig,  and  so  forth, 
means  your  success  at  the  end." 

"Well  done,  Hal!  you  beat  Elder  Brings  all  hol 
low!"  Clapham  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then 
added,  "Mam  believes  in  dreams.  O  that  toad,  Harry, 
with  my  father's  face ! "  Clapham  paused,  and  then 
said,  in  a  lower  and  tremulous  voice,  "I  felt,  when  I 
looked  at  it,  as  if  I  were  growing  like  it!"  and  then, 
elevating  his  voice  almost  to  a  scream,  he  added,  "Am 
I  like  him?  O,  I  am!"  Poor  Clapham's  face  as 
sumed  an  expression  of  distress  and  shame.  Harry 
longed  to  know  just  what  it  meant;  but  he  did  not 
then  press  him  further.  Clapham's  father  was  known 
to  be  a  desperate  man,  his  hand  against  every  man, 
and  every  man's  hand  against  him,  and  Harry  sus 
pected  that  he  had  led  his  son  into  some  evil-doing 
that  the  boy  was  afraid  to  confess,  lest  Harry  should 
withdraw  his  friendship  from  him. 

Clapham  had  yet  to  learn  the  nature  and  office  of 
tnie  goodness ;  that  it  upbraideth  not,  that  it  suffereth 


28  BOYS'  SPORT. 

bng  and  is  kind,  that  it  is  easy  to  be  entreated,  and 
full  of  compassion.  Good  men  have  known  tempta 
tion  and  wrestled  with  it,  and  have  overcome  it  No 
man  is  so  good  that  he  has  not  felt  the  need  of 
asking  pardon  of  God,  his  Creator  and  Judge ;  no 
man  so  good  but  he  has  felt,  at  times,  ready  to  fall 
down  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and,  with  tears  from 
a  contrite  and  overflowing  heart,  give  thanks  to  that 
blessed  Savior  who  came  to  proclaim  forgiveness  of 
sins  —  to  seek  and  to  save  the  lost. 

The  better  a  man  is,  the  more  does  he  feel  for 
those  who  have  wandered  out  of  the  right  way ;  he 
allows  for  the  circumstances  of  danger  in  which  they 
have  been  placed,  and  if  they  have  fallen,  he  is 
ready  to  raise  them  up. 

The  good  man  looks  on  all  men  as  his  brothers. 
They  may  be  poor  and  ignorant;  they  may  have  been 
guilty  of  much  wrong-doing,  but  he  remembers  that 
they  were  created  in  the  image  of  God,  ard  he  knows 
that  image  still  exists,  though  dimmed  and  hidden  by 
many  a  sin.  He  desires,  above  all  things,  to  see  them 
stand  reclaimed  among  their  fellow-men ;  he  hopes 


BOYS     SPORT.  29 

and  believes  they  may  turn  their  faces  heavenward, 
and  lift  their  desires  and  aiins  to  the  infinite  love  of 
God  which  awaits  the  penitent. 

Hanj  Davis  had  not  reasoned  a.1  this  out  dis 
tinctly  ;  but  he  was  a  true-hearted,  kind-hearted  boy. 
He  saw  much  good  in  Clapham,  and  believed  him 
capable  of  much  more.  He  might  have  fallen  into 
a  pit.  "  If  I  find  it  is  so,"  thought  Harry,  "  I  will  drag 
him  out,  and  help  him  on  to  the  best  of  my  ability." 

After  a  little  reflection,  Harry  said,  "  My  mother 
always  says,  when  matters  go  wrong  in  this  world, 
we  must  do  our  best  to  right  them.  Now,  if  I  were 
you,  Clapham,  I  would  get  some  good  place,  and 
live  out" 

"I  should  have  to  run  away  if  I  did.  for  mothet 
wants  me  to  pick  up  wood,  and  father  wants  me  to 
do  every  thing;  but  I  would  not  mind  running  away, 
for  they  are  no  parents  to  me,  and  I've  no  need  to 
be  a  son  to  them.  They  never  did  any  thing  for  me 
but  born  me.  But  what  could  I  do  in  a  regular  way, 
Hal?  I  have  never  done  any  thing  but  gather  berries, 
and  pick  up  nuts,  and  fish,  and  hunt,  and  do  odd- 


30  BOYS'  SPORT. 

come-short  chores  for  mam.  I  am  afraid,  Htl,  it 
would  not  agree  with  me  to  go  round  and  round  m 
the  same  spot,  like  a  grindstone." 

Harry  Davis  was  of  a  different  opinion.  He 
thought  truly  that  his  friend,  Clapham  Dunn,  had 
good  faculties,  which,  though  they  had  been  hitherto 
pretty  much  wasted  and  turned  aside  from  any  worthy 
use,  might  be  so  employed  as  to  make  him  a  useful 
and  respectable  man.  Harry  had  talked  with  his 
mother  about  Clapham.  Harry  had  a  great  respect 
for  his  mother's  judgment,  and  his  mother  had  said 
that  a  boy,  that  was  a  first-rate  fisherman,  and  who 
never  went  hunting  without  bringing  home  game, 
would  have  a  keen  eye,  and  a  dexterous  hand  at 
farming,  or  at  mechanic-work.  All  this  Harry  now 
repeated  to  Clapham,  and  urged  upon  him  many 
reasons  for  decision  and  exertion;  in  a  boy's  way 
he  urged  them,  and  for  that  reason  they  had  more 
weight  with  his  friend.  "Now,  let's  start  together, 
Clap,"  he  said;  "I  am  going  away  from  home  next 
fall,  to  begin  the  world :  do  you  go,  too.  I  begin  as 
poor  as  you  do  —  empty-  handed,  Clap,  with  better 


BOYS'  SPORT.  31 

clothes,  may  be,  because  mother  makes,  and  mends, 
and  manages,  and  keeps  every  thing  decent;  but  we 
are  tolerably  poor,  Clap,  I  assure  you,  and  if  it  were 
not  for  mother,  I  don't  know  what  would  become  of 
us ;  but  we'll  pay  her  for  it  one  of  these  days." 

"You  say  that  with  rather  guess  feelings,  Hal, 
from  what  I  said,  the  very  same  words,  down  at  the 
pond,"  replied  Clapham.  He  spoke  in  a  melancholy 
voice,  as  if  fully  aware  of  the  difference  of  their 
condition.  Harry  felt  pained  for  him.  "  Yes,  I  do, 
Clap,"  he  said;  "and  it  will  never  be  the  credit  to 
me  to  do  well,  that  it  will  be  to  you,  for  I  have 
others  to  thank  for  what  I  am  and  shall  be.  Now 
rouse  up  a  good  resolution  —  look  forward,  and  not 
back,  and  leave  this  shambling  way  of  life.  Go 
clear  away ;  and,  by  and  by,  when  you  get  to  be  a 
man,  and  forehanded  in  the  world,  come  back,  and 
return  good  for  evil  to  your  father  and  mother." 

"Do  you  think  that  ever  could  come  to  pass, 
Harry  Davis?"  Already  Clapham's  eye  brightened 
with  hope;  and  Jie  boys,  as  they  fished  down  the 
stream,  talked  over  their  plans  for  the  future.  Clapham 


BOYS      SPORT. 

could  not  decide  whether  he  would  hire  himself  to  a 
farmer,  01-  apprentice  himself  to  a  trade.  Harry,  though 
only  one  year  older  than  Clapharn,  knew  a  good  deal 
more  about  the  world  than  he  did,  and  he  advised  him 
to  get  any  decent  place  where  he  might  be  allowed  to 
do  chores,  and  go  to  school.  "  Mother  says,"  he  urged, 
"that  a  man,  in  this  country,  is  not  a  man  without 
some  learning.  Mother  says  he  must  know  at  least 
how  to  read,  write,  and  cipher.  Mother  says  these 
are  the  tools  for  all  trades,  and  there  is  no  getting  on 
without  them." 

"Nor  with  them,  neither,  always,  Harry.  Now, 
there's  your  father,  —  I  don't  mean  any  thing  against 
him.  He's  a  master-man  for  learning,  we  all  know. 
The  last  time  we  went  to  Elder  Briggs'  meeting,  I  heard 
him  read,  and  he  sounded  and  rounded  it  off,  I  tell  you. 
Elder  Briggs  was  no  stick  to  him.  Well,  he's  got  the 
tools,  but  he  has  not  gone  ahead !  " 

"  No,  he  has  not ;  but  that  does  not  prove  any  thing. 
I  have  got  as  good  fishing  tackle  as  you  have,  Clap,  but 
I  catch  very  few  fish;  without  the  tackle  I  could  not 
catch  one ;  nor  could  you,  Clap,  smart  as  you  are.  So, 


BOYS'  SPORT.  33 

the  tools  are  necessary,  and  mother  says  an  ignoiant 
man  is  at  the  mercy  of  other  people.  He  must  go  to 
them  to  read  and  write  for  him,  and  cast  up  his  accounts. 
And  then,  where  almost  every  man,  woman,  and  child 
knows  how  to  read  and  write,  a  grown-up  person  must 
feel  somehow  below  others,  that  does  not  know,  and  this 
is  a  very  disagreeable  feeling.  Besides,  Clap,  mother 
says  we  are  not  to  live  for  ourselves  alone.  We  must 
all  do  something  for  our  fellow-creatures,  and  to  do  for 
them,  we  must  be  something  ourselves." 

"  Gorry ! "  exclaimed  Clap ;  "  I  do  something  for  my 
fellow-creatures  !  that's  an  idee,  Hal !  That  will  be  when 
the  sky  falls,  and  we  catch  larks,  I  guess." 

Clapham  spoke  jestingly ;  but  he  was  conscious  of  a 
new  feeling  in  his  bosom.  Harry  Davis  was  one  of  the 
best  lads  in  Salisbury,  and  one  of  the  brightest  scholars 
in  the  school,  and  Harry  Davis  Rad  shown  himself  his 
friend.  He  had  that  day  risked  his  life  for  him,  and  he 
was  now  advising  and  encouraging  him,  and  poor  Clap- 
ham  felt,  for  the  first  time,  that  there  was  one  person  in 
the  world  who  took  a  real  interest  in  him,  and  who  had 
gome  faith  in  him,  and  he  felt  a  desire  to  preserve  that 


34  BOYS'  SPORT. 

interest,  and  to  make  himself  worthy  of  it,  and  he  felt, 
too,  that  it  was  possible  he  might ;  and  visions  of  decent, 
living,  and  school-going,  and  going  ahead,  dawned  upon 
him,  and  he  threw  himself  back  on  the  ground,  k'.cked 
up  his  legs,  and  cried  out,  with  a  ringing  laugh,  "  Hal, 
I'll  go  it !  " 

"  That's  it,  Clap ;  as  mother  says,  be  sure  you're  right, 
then  go  ahead."  Harry  had  hardly  uttered  the  words, 
when  Clapham  turned  over  on  his  face,  and  burst  into 
tears  and  sobs;  and  when  Harry  said,  "What  is  the 
matter  now,  Clap  ?  "  he  replied,  "  I  can't  tell  you ;  but  if 
you  knew  all,  you  would  despise  me,  you  would  not  have 
any  kind  of  a  hope  of  me,  you  would  not  even  fish  with 
me  again  —  no,  you  would  not." 

"  But  try  me,  Clap,  and  see  if  I  won't.  You  can't 
make  matters  worse  by  telling  me." 

"No,  don't  ask  me^al.     I  can't  —  I  can't  —  I  won't 
—  not  now,  I  mean  —  I   can't" 

"  Well,  be  quiet  —  consider  of  it  —  we  won't  talk 
any  more  about  it  now." 

*  The  boys  kept  their  homeward  way,  Harry  asking 
Clapham's  attention  to  the  pleasant  spots,  as  he  called 


BOYS*    SPCMi.  '.15 

them ;  and  Clapham,  in  reply,  said,  "  It  is  a  master- 
pretty  brook!"  And  so  it  is,  with  its  hill  sides  of 
stately  trees,  margins  of  flowering  shrubs,  herbs  of 
virtue,  and  flowers  of  many  kinds. 

A  love  of  nature  is  not  enough  cultivated  amonsr 
rich  or  poor.  Without  it,  one  is  like  a  blind  man  in 
a  gallery  of  beautiful  and  ever-changing  pictures,  like 
a  deaf  man  in  a  wide- world  concert-room  —  the  Daint- 
ings  and  the  music  of  divine  creation. 


30  THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON 


CHAPTER    IT. 
THE    GOOD    RURAL    MATRON. 

•'Scorn  not  the  slightest  word  or  deed, 

Nor  deem  it  void  of  power ; 
There's  fruit  in  each  wind-wafted  seed» 
Waiting  its  natal  hour  " 

CLAPHAM  had  given  to  Harry  some  "posies,"  as  he 
called  a  bunch  of  lovely  fringed  gentians,  for  his 
sister  Annie,  and  the  boys  had  separated.  Clapham 
took  a  foot-path,  which  led  through  woods,  to  his  home, 
a  wretched,  lonely  hut,  on  the  mountain  side,  some  two 
miles  from  the  village  of  Salisbury.  It  had  oriffiriallv 
been  put  up  for  a  few  weeks'  shelter  to  a  collier.  It 
was  not  so  comfortable  as  an  Indian  wigwam,  and  little 
bettei  than  the  den  of  a  wild  beast ;  but,  such  as  it  was, 
Norman  Dunn  and  his  wife  Massy  were  content  to 
inhabit  it,  or  rather  to  make  it  their  head-quarters, 
whence  to  go  forth  to  prey  on  society. 

Harry  Davis's  home  was  a  small  house  on  the  out- 


THE  GOOD  RLRAL  MATRON.  37 

skirts  of  the  village  of  Salisbury,  within  hearing  of  the 
perpetual  song  of  the  little  brook  with  which  our  readers 
have  been  made  acquainted,  and  which,  as  it  crosses 
the  valley,  widens  to  a  stream  as  ornamental  as  a  string 
of  pearls  on  a  lady's  neck.  An  intsrval  of  sunny  land, 
between  the  hill  side  and  the  brook,  gave  space  for  a 
garden. 

"  I  suppose  your  husband  takes  care  of  your  garden, 
Mrs.  Davis  ' "  said  a  lady  visitor,  who  one  day  dropped  in. 

"  Not  I,  indeed,"  said  Davis-,  looking  up  from  his 
writing.  "I  have  always  something  of  rather  more 
consequence  than  that  on  hand." 

"  How  do  you  manage  to  keep  it  so  nicely,  then  ? n 
asked  the  lady,  "  with  all  you  have  to  do  ? " 

"  Why,  I  must  have  a  garden,"  replied  Mrs.  Davis. 
"  Mr.  Davis  don't  refuse  to  plant  the  potatoes,  and  the 
little  girls  are  helpful  at  the  weeds.  And  Harry  we  rks 
in  it  at  all  his  odds  and  ends  of  time,  and  I  love  it 
so  well,  it's  no  chore  to  do  what  I  can." 

"  Your  potatoes  look  finely,  Mrs.  Davis." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  thanks  to  Harry ;  he  never  neglects 
hoeing  them ;  he  knows  they  are  my  dependence." 


38  THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON. 

"But  I  am  sorry  to  see  so  much  room  tak^n  no 
with  cabbages,  Mrs.  Davis,  they  are  so  unwholesome." 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  ma'am.  Working  people  don't 
find  so  many  tilings  unwholesome  as  ladies  do.  Besides, 
my  husband  is  very  partial  to  cabbages,  and  I  like  to 
have  him  suited." 

"What  is  that  beyond  the  beans?" 

"  A  bed  of  parsnips.  They  are  relishing  in  the 
spring,  and  my  husband  is  fond  of  them.  So,  we  never 
spare  parsnip  seed,  f  have  plenty  of  beans,  too,  you 
see.  The  children  are  fond  of  beans,  and  they  are 
profitable  ;  they  go  a  great  way." 

"  I  should  not  think  it  very  profitable,  Mrs.  Davis,  for 
you  to  cultivate  lettuces  in  that  way.  Does  It  not  take 
a  great  deal  of  time  to  tie  them  up  so  nicely  ? " 

"There's  but  a  few  tied  up,  and  those  are  just  to 
please  old  Mrs.  Allen. .  The  old  lady  thinks  every  thing 
of  head-lettuce,  and  her  people  don't  make  iruch  of  a 
Balden." 

"  I  suspect  you  make  little  account  of  trouble,"  said 
tho  lady.  "  You  have  peas,  I  see.  Our  landlord  at  the 
inn  tells  us,  in  excuse  .^>r  Imving  no  peas,  that  they 


THE    GOOD   RU11AL   MATRON.  39 

* 

take  so  much  ground,  and  yield  so  little,  that  he  cannot 
be  at  the  trouble  of  them." 

"  But  when  it's  for  their  own  children,  no  one  thinks 
of  trouble.  I  like  to  be  sure  of  green  peas  and  roast 
lamb.  Independence  day.  The  children  enjoy  "it,  and  it 
somehow  sets  out  the  day  from  the  rest  of  the  year." 

"  And  for  whom  are  the  peonies,  and  pinks,  and 
lilies,  so  well  taken  care  of,  dear  Mrs.  Davis,  and  the 
roses  so  skilfully  tied  up  and  trained?  And  there's  a 
honeysuckle,  too,  my  favorite  flower." 

"Why,  ma'am,  for  every  one  that  loves  to  enjoy 
them.  They  can't  be  confined  to  any  body  in  particu 
lar.  God  seems  to  me  to  have  provided  them,  as  he 
does  the  rain,  for  the  just  and  unjust.  It's  a  pleasure 
to  me  to  see  people  stop  and  look  over  into  the  garden ; 
and  to  a  poor  person,  that  has  but  little  to  give  away, 
it's  a  pleasure  to  give  a  bunch  of  flowers  ^to  a  child, 
or  send  it  to  a  sick  body." 

"God  bless  you,  Mrs.  Davis,"  said  the  lady,  as  sho 
took  her  leave;  "I  could  not  have  believed  that  the 
woman  to  whom  I  send  my  clothes  to  be  washed  co.ild 
give  me  such  instruction  as  to  the  use  of  rny  fac- 


40  THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON. 

•)• 

ties,   and  the   abounding  means  of  good  and  content 
ment." 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to*  describe  Mr.  Davids  dwell" 
j  ing  to  convince  our  readers  that,  though  in  a  ruinous 
condition,  it  had  all  the  decency  and   comfort   that  en 
ergy  and  neatness  in  the  mistress  could  give  it.     The 
furniture,  though    racked    by    more    moves    than    three, 

which  Franklin  pronounces  to  be  equivalent  in  destruc- 

0 

tion  to  a  fire,  was    yet  decent,  and   indicated  a  history 
of  better  times. 

There  was  one  valuable  piece  of  furniture  in  the 
room  that  served  Mrs.  Davis's  family  for  kitchen  and 
parlor  —  a  capacious  old-fashioned  bureau,  surmounted 
by  a  writing-desk  and  book-case,  in  which,  with  a  few 
volumes  of  history,  poetry,  and  travels,  and  some  well- 
preserved  school-books,  there  was  a  large  family  Bible, 
not  a  grease-spot  to  be  found  on  its  well-read  leaves, 
not  a  dog's-ear  on  their  corners.  It  had  been  used 
with  care  and  reverence.  It  is  worth  while  to  extract 
a  passage  from  good  old  Mr.  Bethan's  will  —  Mr.  Be- 
Uian  was  Mrs.  Davis's  father  —  concerning  this  Bible. 
"Besides  the  five  hundred  dollars  aforesaid,  I  give 


THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON.  41 

and  bequealli  to  my  daughter  Martha  my  great  family 
Bible,  the  same  received  from  my  honored  father  on 
my  wedding-day.  I  have  brought  up  my  children  — 
ten  in  number  —  on  the  milk  and  meat  of  its  holy 
word,  and  I  recommend  to  my  daughter  Martha, 
aforesaid,  to  do  the  same ;  and  may  its  nurture  and  ad 
monition  prosper  with  future  generations,  as,  by  the 
blessing  of  God,  they  have  done  with  my  aforesaid 
daughter  Martha/'  The  good  man's  pious  prayer  was 
granted. 

Mrs.  Davis  did  not  lay  her  Bible  on  the  shelf, 
but  she  put  it  to  the  holy  use  suggested  by  her 
father.  She  read  in  it  daily  to  her  children,  and 
explained  it  as  well  as  she  was  able.  She  took 
care  not  to  weary  them  with  the  reading.  She 
turned  to  the  Bible  whenever  she  had  occasion  to 
instruct  them  in  a  particular  duty,  or  to  reprove  or 
admonish  them.  If  the  children  were  out  of  humor, 
and  quarrelsome,  she  found  in  her  Bible  an  admo 
nition  to  peace  art:  brotherly  love ;  if  they  were 

• 

selfish,  she   showed   them   the   requirement  to   do   unto 

others    as   you  would   that   others   should    do  to  you  — 
4 


42  THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATHC JT. 

a  requirement  that  lays  the  axe  at  the  rooc  of  all 
selfishness.  If  they  were  unjust,  unkind  in  their 
judgment  of  others,  impatient  or  discontented,  —  ii 
any  thing  went  wrong,  —  instead  of  flying  cut  upon 
them,  and  scolding,  she  took  the  right  moment,  and 
opened  that  precious  gift  of  her  father;  and,  in  a 
sweet  and  tender,  and  never  an  angry  voice,  she  read 
to  them  some  passage  which  plainly  forbade  their 
wrong-doing  or  feeling ;  and  then  she  would  turn  to 
some  word  of  encouragement,  some  promise  of  good 
or  favor,  which  made  the  children  feel  that  He  who 
gave  the  law  was  their  Benefactor  as  well  as  Judge. 
"  No  tongue  can  tell,"  Mrs.  Davis  would  say,  "  how 
I  feel  my  weakness  in  bringing  up  my  children, 
especially  in  correcting  them ;  but  when  I  open  my 
Bible,  there  is  strength  and  authority."1 

But  to  return  to  the  book-case  One  of  the 
shelves  was  appropriated  to  Mr.  Da  vis's  use.  This 
was  filled  with  pamphlets  and  newspapers,  one  large 
volume  entitled  "  Wonderful  Shipwrecks,"  a  dream- 
book,  and  a  history  of  remarkable  inventions,  with 
sketches  of  the  lives  of  inventon  — rather  apocalyptic 


TUB    GOOD    RURAL    MA  ."RON.  43 

On  the  evening  of  Harry's  return  from  his  fish 
ing,  Davis  was  seated  at  his  desk,  with  a  large  sheet 
of  paper  before  him,  on  which  he  was  drawing  the 
figure  of  a  plough  he  was  in  the  act  of  inventing. 
"Is  that  you,  Harry?"  he  said;  "I  have  wanted 
you  confoundedly,  to  copy  this  drawing  for  me ;  you 
can  draw  better  than  I,  and  it's  fair  I  should  get 
something  for  the  time  you  have  wasted  learning." 

"Wasted,  father!  I  hope  not.  I  have  got  a 
great  many  ideas  from  it  already,  as  Mr.  Lyman 
says,  and  I  am  sure  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure,  and  that's  worth  something'.  And  Mr.  Ly 
man  says,  if  any  one  has  the  art  of  doing  any 
thing  well,  it  will  be  sure  to  turn  to  account. 
What  would  poor  Mr.  Lyman  himself  do,  if  it  were 
not  for  his  knowledge  of  drawing?" 

"Pooh!  nonsense!  'Luck  is  a  lord,'  and  Lyman 
is  lucky." 

"I   should   not   call   it  luck  exactly,  sir." 

"No  matter  what  you  call  it.  I  want  to  send 
a  drawing  of  this  to  Washington.".  —  holding  up  the 
sheet  of  paper  on  which  his  plough  was  clumsily 


44  THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON. 

delineated,  — "  and  you  will  copy  it  ft  r  me  this 
evening,  and  make  all  these  lines  that  are  a  little 
agee  and  blotted,  straight  —  you  see  my  hand  trem 
bles.  Will  you  do  it?" 

Lyman  was  a  young  man  ill  the  village  who 
had  lost  the  use  of  one  leg  by  a  fall  in  his  child 
hood.  When  about  fifteen,  he  had  been  sent  to  the 
Boston  Hospital  for  surgical  aid.  He  was  a  long 
time  under  medical  treatment,  but  without  material 

benefit.      Mrs. heard   his   melancholy  case   spoken 

of  with  much  interest  by  a  medical  friend,  and 
heard,  at  the  same  time,  that  his  only  pastime 

was   drawing,   for    TThich    he    had   a   gift.      Mrs. , 

though  the  working  head  of  a  large  establishment, 
with  unnumbered  occupations,  went  to  the  Hospital 
and  instructed  the  lad  in  the  science  of  perspective, 
which  she  thoroughly  understood,  and  gave  him  les 
sons  in  drawing.  This  is  but  one  of  a  hundred 

similar   acts   of  efficient  charity  of  Mrs. .     "What 

a    singular   woman    is    Mrs. ! "    said   one   of    her 

fashionable  friends,  with  a  curl  of  her  lip.  Would 
to  Heaven  she  were  not  singular,  but  that  many 


THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON.  45 

others  would  turn  their  talents  and  accomplishments 
into  daily  bread  for  the  less  favored  or  unfortunate! 

Daily  bread  it  proved  to  young  Lyman.  He  did 
not  recover  his  leg,  but  he  went  home  with  the 
means  of  gaining  his  living.  He  diligently  practised 
the  lessons  he  received  ;  and  he  has  since  had 
plenty  of  employment  from  engravers,  from  an  oc 
ulist  to  illustrate  diseases  of  the  eye,  and  from 
engineers  to  make  drafts. 

Lyman  acted  on  Dr.  Franklin's  principle,  —  he 
"made  the  favor  go  round."  He  could  only  return 
gratitude  to  his  benefactress ;  but  when  he  found 
our  friend  Harry  had  a  taste  for  drawing,  and  an 
inclination  to  improve  it,  he  gave  him  an  hour  of 
his  winter's  evenings. 

Harry  had  cheerfully  promised  to  comply  with 
ais  father's  wishes,  and  make  the  drawing,  when 
Davis  gave  utterance  to  a  new  want.  "It's  getting 
dark,"  he  said  ;  "  do,  Martha,  light  a  candle." 

"We  have  not  one  in  the  house,"  replied  hia 
wife,  who  was  jogging  the  cradle  with  one  foot, 
while  she  chopped  some  potatoes  for  supper. 


46  THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON. 

"Have  not:  Well,  send  Annie  over  to  Mrs. 
Hubbard's,  and  borrow  one." 

"  If  I  could   see   any  way  to  pay  it,   I  would." 

"The  wicked  borrow,  and  never  return."  inter 
posed  little  Annie. 

"You  will  have  to  make  out  as  I  do,  father," 
continued  Mrs.  Davis,  without  heeding  Annie's  reply, 
and  she  took  from  a  closet  some  pine  knots  Harry 
had  collected,  and,  throwing  one  on  the  fire,  it  flamed 
up  and  diffused  a  brilliant  light  through  the  room- 

"This  will  do  for  the  present,"  said  Davis;  "but 
we  must  have  a  candle  after  supper.  I  have  here 
the  most  wonderful  thing  you  ever  heard  of.  —  Are 
the  fish  almost  ready  to  fry,  Harry?  I  begin  to  feel 
sharp.  —  It  beats  the  world.  It  is  a  self-moving 
plough.  It's  all  done  to  the  moving  power,  and 
that  I  shall  work  out  in  the  course  of  the  night. 
— Mind  and  fry  some  pork,  that's  thicker  than  a  wafer, 
with  your  fish,  Martha.  —  Talk  about  a  candle ! 
Why,  in  less  than  a  year  after  the  plough  is  on 
sale,  we'll  have  them  by  the  box.  There  was  never 
such  an  invention  heard  of  as  a  self-moving  plough 


THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON.  47 

Only  consider,  pbughs  are  used  all  over  the  world; 
there's  no  limit  to  the  demand.  —  Cut  a  pie  for  sup 
per,  mother ;  we  had  a  slim  dinner.  —  There's  no 
calculating  what  my  patent,  may  be  worth  to  me ! " 

"As  much,  may  be,  Thomas,  as  your  patent  for 
the  *  Self-Churning  Churn,'  or  the  '  Independent  Wash 
ing-Machine.'"  Mrs.  Davis  spoke  with  a  smile,  hall 
sad,  half  incredulous,  but  not  tauntingly;  and,  as  ii 
conscious  of  some  difference  of  feeling  between  her 
self  and  her  husband,  to  soften  it,  she  threw  another 
pine  knot  on  the  fire  for  his  benefit. 

"The  churn,  to  be  sure,"  said  Davis,  in  rather 
a  meek  tone,  "  had  one  fault  —  it  would  not  bring 
the  butter;  but  the  ' Independent  Washing-Machine'  was 
complete,  only  the  women-folks  are  so  full  of  pre 
judice,  they  would  not  use  it.  Desire  Nash  herself 
told  me  it  saved  half  the  soap."  And  she  might 
have  saved  the  other  half  too,  for  any  good  it  did 
the  clothes  in  that  machine,  Martha  Davis  could  have 
retorted;  but  she  was  not  in  the  habit  of  speaking 
words  that  would  irritate  without  doing  any  pos 
sible  good.  She  had  lived  with  her  husband  fif- 


48  THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON. 

teen  years.  He  was  what  is  called  a  scheming 
man.  He  had  a  mechanical  turn,  and,  if  he  had 
kept  steadily  to  the  trade  of  a  cooper,  to  which  he 
was  bred,  he  would  by  this  time  have  been  a  man 
of  substance ;  but,  being  lazy  as  far  as  bodily  ex 
ertion  goes,  he  was  always  contriving  some  short 
and  easy  road  to  fortune.  He  would  rather  sit  down 
to  the  old  desk  and  invent  a  plough,  than  to  plough 
a  furrow.  Wiser  men  than  Thomas  Davis  have 
miscalculated  their  powers,  and  mistaken  their  call 
ing.  That  which  spoils  many  a  decent  mechanic 
had  ruined  him,  —  an  over-conceit  of  himself,  and 
an  indolent  disposition.  His  churn,  he  declared  in 
his  purring  advertisements,  "might  be  managed  by 
a  child  six  years  old ;  and  a  woman  might  sew, 
knit,  or  read,  while  she  churned."  One  poor  woman, 
who  perseveringly  tried  it,  said  "she  might  have 
read  through  Scott's  Bible,  notes  and  all,  before  the 
butter  came." 

A  bright  vision  of  the  "  Independent  Washing-Ma 
chine  "  followed  the  churn.  The  getting  up  of  these 
cost  vastly  more.  Once  wound  up,  they  went  of  them- 


THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATRON.  49 

selves  but,  after  going  one  or  two  trips,  they  were 
obstructed  by  some  imperfection  in  the  machinery,  and, 
like  Balaam's  ass,  go  they  would  not;  and  those  who 
had  been  persuaded  to  try  them,  gave  them  so  bad  a 
name  tha,  the  greater  number  unsold,  decayed  and  fell 
to  pieces.  Poor  Mrs.  Davis's  little  inheritance  all  went 
to  pay  for  the  patents,  the  advertisements,  and  the 
manufacture  of  the  machines.  One  might  hope  that 
this  experience  would  teach  Davis  that  his  genius  did 
not  lie  in  invention.  Not  at  all.  By  this  time,  he  had 
neither  workshop  nor  tools  of  his  own;  and  once  in  a 
while,  when  his  wife's  productive  labors  were  suspended 
by  a  lying-in,  he  turned  into  some  other  man's  wort 
shop,  and  earned  enough  to  supply  the  most  pressing 
wants  of  his  family.  Davis  had  rather  work  than  fore 
go  his  three  meals  a  day,  and,  to  do  him  justice,  he 
was  good-natured,  and  could  not  quietly  see  his  family 
suffer;  but,  the  pressure  removed,  he  reverted  to  his 
old  occupations,  and  was  again  at  his  desk,  drawing 
pi  ins  for  patent  clocks,  patent  axles,  patent  hoes;  and 
now  he  had  been  a  month  working  out  his  design  for 

the  "  Self-Moving  Plough:1      One  of  the   mischiefs   of 
5 


50  THE  GOOD  RURAL  MATKON. 

the  sanguine  disposition  that  usually  attends  this  in 
vention,  was  a  perpetual  moving  from  place  to  place, 
now  to  some  little  trading  town  on  the  Hudson,  where 
he  expected  new  facilities,  then  back  into  the  interior, 
for  some  visionary  advantage.  Always  to  be  blessed. 
Each  remove  involved  fatigue  and  loss  to  his  much- 
enduring  wife. 

Davis  willingly  left  his  desk  for  the  savory  invita 
tion  of  the  supper-table,  and,  ,when  there,  after  helping 
his  wife  and  children  to  the  perch  and  simfish,  he 
coolly  took  the  trout  to  himself,  saying  that  he  had 
always  been  remarkable  for  his  love  of  trout. 

"  Don't  you  like  trout,  too,  mother  ? "  asked  little 
Lucy. 

"  Yes,  Lucy,  but  your  father  cares  more  about  them 
than  I  do." 

"  Surely,  Martha,"  said  Davis,  helping  himself  to 
the  last  trout  in  the  dish,  "you  did  not  cook  all 
the  trout  Harry  caught.  My  appetite  is  only  just 
whetted." 

"  I  did  save  out  a  relish  for  old  Mrs.  Allen's  break 
fast.     The  old  lady  is  partial  to  trout" 


THE  GOOft  RURAL  MATRON. 

"Pooh!  Old  folks  should  not  be  setting  their  hearts 
on  such  tilings." 

"O  father!"  exclaimed  little  Lucy.  The  others 
said  nothing.  Harry  blushed,  and  they  all  felt  their 
father's  coarse  selfishness. 

"Why  upon  earth,  Martha,"  asked  Davis,  while  he 
gleaned  out  every  morsel,  "  did  you  not  put  more  pork 
with  the  fish?  I  desired  you  to." 

"There  is  no  more  in  the  house."     . 

"But  there  is  plenty  at  Smith's.  A  little  more 
sugar  in  my  tea,  Martha." 

"I   put  in   the   last  spoonful." 

"Well,  wife,  I  don't  see  the  use  of  vour  slaving 
yourself  all  summer  washing  for  those  New  York  gen 
try  up  at  the  tavern,  if  we  cant  get  sugar  for  our 
tea." 

"We  have  many  oilier  umigs  besides  sugar  to 
get." 

"  Never  mind ;  we'll  have  sugar  plenty,  and  of  the 
best,  when  my  ploughs  begin  to  turn  up  the  ground." 


51  BERRYING 


CHAPTER    III 


"  All  was  so  light,  so  lovely,  so  serene, 
And  not  a  trouble  to  be  heard  or  seen.' 

SATURDAY  is  school-children's  holiday  all  over  our 
world,  and  on  the  Saturday  following  that  of  the 
boys'  fishing  sport,  Mrs.  Davis  had  promised  her  chil 
dren  that  they  should  go  berrying.  It  was  rather  late 
for  blackberries  ;  but  Clapham  knew  a  place  among  the 
hills  where  blackberries,  always  late,  were  now  in 
abundance  and  perfection,  and  Clapham  had  promised 
to  come  down  and  pioneer  them  to  the  spot.  Poor 
Clapham  had  washed  himself  in  the  brook,  as  clean  as 
water  without  soap  (an  article  his  home  did  not  afford) 
could  make  him,  had  combed  out  his  hair,  which 
turned  off  from  the  comb  (a  comb  Harry  had  given 
to  him)  in  curls,  clustering  one  over  another,  had  put 
on  a  well-j)  '.tchod  roundabout,  a  present  from  Harry, 


BERRYING.  53 

and  SOWD  ap  the  rips  and  tears  in  .his  pantaloons  as  well 
as,  he  could,  and  was  going  forth  whistling,  with  a 
light  heart,  when  his  mother  called  after  him,  "  Mind, 
Clap,  you  don't  forget  to  bring  me  the  snuff.  You 
know  you  promised,  if  I  washed  your  shirt,  you  would." 

"I'll  get  it,  and  no  mistake,"  said  Clap,  keeping 
on  his  way. 

"  And,  Clap,"  said  she,  running  after  him,  "  here  is 
my  mixtur-bottle  —  it  don't  hold  nothing,  hardly — just 
get  it  rilled  with  Jamaica  —  my  stomach  is  so  cold 
to-day.  Here  is  a  ninepence." 

Clapham  stopped.  "  You  told  me,"  he  said,  "  when 
you  asked  me  to  sell  berries  for  the  snuff,  that  you  had 
not  a  cent  in  the  world." 

"I  had  not  then,  Clap — don't  be  mad  —  you  know 
I  never  tell  lies.  I  found  this,  since,  in  dad's  cor 
duroys." 

"Put  it  back,  then,  mam.  We  are  bad  enough 
without  stealing  from  one  another;"  and  he  flung  the 
bottle  against  a  rock,  and  shivered  it  to  atoms. 

"  You're  an  ondecent,  ongrateful  boy !  You've  no 
feeling  for  your  own  mother,"  scolded  and  whimpered 


54  BERRYING. 

Massy.  Clapham  did  not  heed  her.  He  had  looked 
forward,  all  the  week,  to  this  afternoon ;  his  home  was 
behind  him,  and  even  his  wretched  mother  could  not 
cast  c.  shadow  over  the  sunshine  of  his  present  pleasant 
expectations.  It  was  one  of  the  brightest  of  Septem 
ber  days,  —  warm,  but  not  too  warm,  —  with  a  freshness 
in  the  air  that  painted  Clapham's  cheek  with  a  glow 
as  ruddy  as  that  of  the  leaves  which  here  and  there 
were  already  dyed  in  their  rich  autumn  colors.  Clap- 
ham,  at  this  moment,  looked  so  handsome,  so  joyous, 

that  it  seemed  as  if  some  good  angel  must  rescue  him 

••> 

from  the  probable  destiny  of  his  life.  That  good  angel 
must  be  the  firm  resolve,  the  manly  struggle  of  the 
boy  himself! 

It  seemed  to  Clapham  that  he  saw  Rhigi,  the 
brook,  the  sky,  the  world,  with  a  new  eye  skice  Harry 
had  RDoken  of  the  "pleasure  of  being  out  in  pleas 
ant  places."  It  never  before  looked  so  beautiful  to 
him,  and  down  he  went  along  the  stream,  swinging 
from  bough  to  bough,  singing  and  whistling  as  he 
went. 

He  had  left  the  stream  at  a  fall  of  some  fifteen  or 


BERRYING.  55 

twenty  feet,  and  come  again  upon  it  at  some  distance, 
when  a  curve  of  the  shore  brought  him  directly  in  face 
of  it,  where  some  stout  old  grape-vines,  hanging  from 
the  trees,  had  been  woven  into  a  seat.  Clapham  stopped 
to  look  at  it,  and,  Avhile  he  was  lookmg,  something  glit- 
cered  among  the  weeds  at  his  feet.  It  was  a  purse  of 
silk  and  steel  beads,  and  near  it  lay  a  pencil.  "  Ah,  Mr. 
Lyman's!"  thought  Clapham.  "I  might  have  guessed 
he  had  been  drawing  here,  when  I  saw  the  seat."  He 
slid  the  purse's  rings.  "  Goodness  me !  five  dollars,  and 
evev  so  much  change ! "  He  replaced  the  bank  note 
and  silver,  as  if  they  had  scorched  his  fingers,  thrust 
the  purse  into  his  bosom,  and  buttoned  his  roundabout 
tight  over  it,  and  walked  on  faster  than  before.  Many, 
many  thoughts  crowded  upon  the  poor  boy.  "  No, 
no !  —  I  will  not,"  he  said  aloud.  "  I'm  not  fit  com 
pany  for  Harry  and  Annie  with  these  old  duds  of 
pantaloons,  and  no  shoes;  but  I  should  be  unfitter  if 
I  bought  new  with  this  money.  No!  I  will  carry  it 
to  Mr.  Lyman,  and  Harry  will  know  it,  and  like  me 
better  for  it;  and  then  I  shall  —  may  be  —  dare  to  tell 
bim  all.  But  that's  no  great  honesty  just  to  give  Mr. 


5G  BERRYING. 

Lyman  his  own,  to  get  Harry's  friendship.  If  I  could 
do  it  just  because  it  is  honest  and  right  to  do  it,  and 
for  nothing  else,  then  I  should  think  something  of 
myself;  I  should  somehow  'be  sure  of  myself,  and  that 
somehow  would  be  better  than  even  having  Harry  think 
well  of  me.  Hurrah !  I'll  go  it ! "  he  shouted,  clapping 
his  hands.  "I'll  carry  it  to  Mr.  Lyman,  and  get  his 
promise  not  to  say  a  word  about  it."  Clapham  Dunn 
was  a  happy  boy  that  day. 

In  a  little  time,  he  bounded  into  Mrs.  Davis's  house, 
exclaiming,  "  All  ready  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  replied  Harry  and  Annie,  in  a  breath, 
"  only  mother  is  afraid  to  let  Lucy  go.  She  thinks 
she  will  be  too  tired." 

"  O,  please,  Mrs.  Davis,  let  her  go.  Why,  it  is  not 
any  thing  to  get  her  up  there.  She  is  as  light  as  a 
feather,  Lucy  is.  I  can  carry  her  all  the  way  in  my 
arms,  or  on  my  back." 

"  So  he  can,  mother,  as  easy ! "  pleaded  little  Lucy. 

"  Well,  go,  child ;  and  take  the  plaid  shawl  with 
you,  Annie,  to  tie  round  her,  if  it  comes  cool  towards 
evening.  Lucy  is  not  as  strong  as  the  rest  of  you 


BERRYING.  57 

but  you   need  not  carry  her,  Clapham ;  only   now    ind 
then,  if  she  gets  tired,  give  her  a  lift." 

"She  shall  not  get  tired,  dear  mother,"  said  Harry. 
"  Clapham  and  I  can  make  a  hand-chair,  and  carry  her." 
The  boys  clasped  hands,  Lucy  jumped  on  to  the  seat, 
and  put  an  arm  on  the  shoulder  of  each  boy ;  Annie 
followed  with  the  baskets  ;  and  so  they  all  went  forth, 
chattering  and  laughing,  while  the  good  mother  stood 
at  the  door,  her  eye  fondly  following  them,  and  her 
heart  echoing  the  music  of  their  gleeful  voices.  After 
going  along  the  margin  of  the  brook  for  a  while,  they 
turned  off,  and  ascended  through  the  woodlands  to  the 
blackberry  field,  the  land  of  promise.  It  was  a  large, 
scrambling  field,  on  the  declivity  of  Rhigi,  with  the 
oriery  blackberry  skirting  all  the  woodland,  and  growing 
in  scattering  clumps  about  the  field.  Our  young  friends 
were  soon  reenforced  by  children  from  Salisbury  and 
young  mountaineers  from  Rhigi.  A  voice  of  some 
fortunate  and  generous  child  would  be  heard  shouting, 
"O,  what  a  good  place  I  have  found!"  and  then  a 
swarm  would  gather  and  share  the  spoil,  while  others, 
more  selfish,  more  wary,  and  more  intent  on  filling 


58  BERRYING. 

their  baskets  than  on  any  social  pleasure,  would  creep 
about  in  hidden  places,  and  never  impart  to  others 
their  good  fortune.  The  Davises  and  Clapham  kept 
together.  Clapham's  wood-craft  stood  him  in  good 
stead.  He Jmew  every  bush  in  the  field;  he  could  pick 
twice  as  fast  as  any  one  else.  Annie  wondered  how 
her  basket  filled  so  rapidly,  till  she  detected  Clap- 
ham  dropping  in  a  handful  of  the  largest  and  ripest 
berries  ;  and  she  exclaimed,  "  O,  it's  you  that  have  filled 
my  basket,  Clapham,  and  not  I ; "  and  little  Lucy  said, 
"  It's  all  of  you  that  fill  my  basket,  and  they  are  all  so 
ripe  and  good ;  but  Clapham's  are  the  bester  of  all." 

"  And  you  are  the  '  bester '  little  girl,"  said  Clap- 
ham  ;  "  and  do  you  stay  here  with  Annie,  while  Hal  and 
I  go  up  to  a  clearing,  where  there's  a  royal  place. 
We'll  be  back  in  less  than  no  time."  The  girls  as 
sented,  and  the  boys  run  off.  Annie  made  a  little 
cushion  of  the  blanket  shawl  for  Lucy,  and  the  girls 
sat  down  to  eat  a  bit  of  gingerbread  their  mother 
had  tucked  in  one  of  their  baskets. 

"  How  pleasant  it  is  here ! "  said  Annie,  lying  down 
on  the  ground.  "See,  Lucy,  how  the  white  clouds 


BERRYING.  59 

sail  over  our  heads ;  and  hark !  don't  yc  n  hear  the 
fall?" 

"  O,  yes !  I  wish  we  lived  here  always.  What 
do  peoples  live  in  houses  for,  Annie  ? " 

"  Why,  would  you  like  to  live  here  at  night,  Lucy  ?  " 

"Yes,  Annie,  if  the  sun  would  only  shine  at  night, 
and  mother  would  come  here,  and  you,  and  Harry,  and 
Clapham  would  live  with  us.  I  love  Clapham;  don't 
you  love  Clapham,  Annie?"  Before  Annie  replied, 
Hancock  Coles  and  James  Willett,  two  boys  from 
the  neighborhood,  joined  them.  "Love  Clap  Dunn! 
that's  a  good  one,"  cried  young  Coles.  "  He's  a  pretty 
fellow  to  love,  or  like,  or  put  up  with  any  way.  Harry 
Davis  disgraces  himself  to  keep  company  with  him." 

"  Hancock  disgraces  hisself  to  say  so,  don't  he, 
Annie  ?n  whispered  Lucy.  Annie,  who  had  risen  to 
her  feet  at  the  approach  of  the  boys,  nodded  a  very 
hearty  assent,  and  Lucy  turned  to  Hancock,  and,  doub 
ling  her  little  fist,  and  shaking  it  most  energetically 
at  him,  she  said,  "You  don't  know  Clapham!" 

*•'  Don't  I  ?  That's  a  good  one,  an't  it,  James  ?  Don't 
knoTr  Clap  Dunn,  and  his  father  before  him!  My 


60  BE  R  HONG. 

father  says,  Norman  Dunn,  and  Massy,  and  Clap  into 
the  bargain,  ought  to  be  sent  to  State's  Prison.  Don't 
know  Clap  Dunn!  Clap,  that  robbed  our  hen-roost 
when  he  was  seven  years  old ! " 

Annie  could  no  longer  restrain  her  bursting  indig 
nation.  "If  he  did,  he  has  never  robbed  since,"  she 
said ;  "  and  who  was  it,  Mr.  Hancock  Coles,  that  robbed 
poor  old  Mrs.  Allen  of  all  her  plums  when  he  was 
twice  seven  years  old?  You  may  look  mad,  but  you 
can't  deny  it.  And  if  poor  Clapham  has  a  bad  father 
and  mother,  he  can't  help  that ;  and  I  don't  think  they 
are  any  worse  than " 

Annie's  kind  heart  checked  her,  or  perhaps  it  was 
a  certain  innate  sense  of  the  hardship  of  reproaching 
a  child  with  a  father's  wrong-doing.  She  had  that 
\rery  morning  been  present  when  one  of  the  gossips 
of  the  village  had  related  at  the  Davises  an  anecdote 
of  Coles,  Hancock's  father,  who  was  a  noted  horse 
jockey,  having  taken  advantage  of  the  necessities  of  a 
poor  woman  who  had  just  lost  her  husband,  and  so 
overreached  her  in  the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  horses 
that  his  conscience  forced  him  to  allow  her  five  dollars 


BERRVIHG.  0 

over  and  above  the  bargain,  and  that  he  gave  it  to 
her,  saying.  "I  feel  so  much  for  you,  ma'am,  being 
a  widow,  that  I  present  you  five  dollars."*  Annie 
might  not  have  quite  comprehended  the  transaction, 
but  she  perceived  that,  in  addition  to  dishonesty,  there 
was  meanness  and  ostentation,  and  that  therefore  it 
was  worse  than  bare  thieving. 

We  wish  that  the  principles  of  strict  honesty  and 
unwavering  truth,  in  which  Mrs.  Davis  educated  her 
children,  were  universal.  Then  there  would  be  an 
end  of  the  false  coloring,  the  false  weighing,  the 
false  counting,  the  keen  bargaining,  to  which  the 
greed  of  gain  leads  a  portion  of  our  New  England 
people,  and  which  is  —  we  say  it  with  shame  and 
sorrow  —  their  besetting  sin.  Greed  of  gain  is  the 
besetting  sin  of  the  most  civilized,  the  best,  and  the 
most  favored  people  of  God's  earth.  My  young 
friends,  reform  it,  reform  it  altogether. 

Annie  had  checked  herself  as  she  was  on  the 
point  of  reproaching  Hancock  with  his  father's  mis 
deed  but  little  Lucy,  who  shared  her  sister's  re- 

*  Fact. 


62  BEEKYlNCr. 

sentment  without  feeling  the  same  impulse  to  restrain 
it,  said,  "My  Annie  means  that  Clapham's  peoples 
ain't  any  worse  than  your  peoples,  Mr.  Hancock." 

"  Take  that  for  your  impudence,  miss  !  "  said 
Hancock,  kicking  over  little  Lucy's  basket  of  black 
berries  ;  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  stamping  on 
the  fruit  and  crushing  those  beautiful,  selected  ber 
ries  ;  but,  seeing  Harry  and  Clapham  emerging  from 
the  woodland  above,  he  sneaked  off  with  his  com 
panion.  Lucy  was  left  crying'  bitterly.  "He's  an 
awful  boy!"  she  said;  "I'll  tell  Harry  of  him,  and 
I'll  tell  Clapham  every  thing  he  said  about  him." 

"  O,  no,-  no,  no,  dear  Lucy,  don't ;  it  will  make 
the  boys  so  mad ;  and  may  be  they  will  have  a  fight 
with  Hancock.  Don't  say  one  word  about  it,  Lucy, 
I  will  pick  up  all  the  berries.  Clapham  will  feel 
dreadfully  if  you  -  tell  him.  See,  they  are  not  tho 
least  hurt,  the  grass  is  so  clean.  Do  not  say  one 
word  to  Clapham.  Mother  says  we  must  never  tell 
one  person  what  another  says  against  him;  it  only 
makes  more  trouble,  mother  says,  and  I  know  Clap- 
ham  will  feol  so  bad  poor  Clapham !  " 


BERKi'lNG.  63 

"I  won't  tell  him  then,  Annie  —  but  it's  too  bad;" 
and  the  little  creature  wiped  away  her  tears  with 
her  stained  hands,  suppressed  her  sous,  and  cleared 
up  her  face  as  well  as  she  could,  before  the  boys 
carne  up  to  them. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Lucy,  darling?"  ex 
claimed  Harry;  "the  blackberries  spilt?  O!" 

"Is  that  all?"  said  Clapharn.  "Never  mind,  Lucy; 
it's  no  fault  of  yours,  I  dare  say  —  it's  a  sideling1 
place  here.  Don't,  Annie,  plague  yourself  to  pick 
up  the  rest.  I  have  some  first-rate  ones  here  in 
this  nice  paper  your  mother  wrapped  the  ginger 
bread  in.  I  picked  them  on  purpose  to  cream  over 
your  and  Annie's  baskets.  There,"  he  added,  shaking 
them  over  the  tops  of  their  baskets,  "there,  it's  all 
neat  and  complete." 

Lucy's  happiness  was  quite  restored.  There  was 
no  vestige  of  the  grief  and  disturbance,  except  now 
and  then  a  glance  askance,  from  her  sweet  blue 
eye,  at  Annie,  which  indicated  a  consciousness  that 
a  great  secret  was  sleeping  in  her  little  bosom. 

The  young  people    proceeded   homeward,  and  wore 


Cl  BERRYING. 

again  traversing  the  foot-path  along  the  brook,  in 
whose  pure  water  they  had  washed  away  the  stains 
on  Lucy's  face  and  hands.  She  was  on  Clapham's 
back.  He  had  gathered  for  her,  by  the  way,  the 
golden-rod,  asters,  and  the  lovely  fringed  gentian, 
and  Annie  had  tied  them  in  her  pocket  handkerchief, 
which  swung  on  Lucy's  arm.  The  flowers  were 
peeping  out  in  every  direction.  They  had  stopped 
under  a  sumac,  whose  leaves  were  already  of  a  bril 
liant  red,  and  Harry,  at  Lucy's  request,  had  pulled 
away  from  the  sumac  a  clematis  that  was  wreathed 
around  it,  and  which  is  scarcely  less  beautiful  in  the 
silken  green  tassels  of  its  seed-time,  than  with  its 
delicate  summer  flowers.  The  whole  vine  had  fallen, 
and  its  branches  dropped  around  the  children,  so  as 
to  wreathe  them  together  enchantingly.  At  this  mo 
ment,  Lyman  met  them,  and  the  group  struck  the 
painter's  eye.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  any 
tiling  so  beautiful.  "O,  stand  still!"  he  said;  "stand 
still,  every  one  of  you,  for  a  few  moments.  Let  the 
vine  be  just  where  it  is  over  your  heads,  and  shoulders, 
and  arms.  No,  Annie,  don't  move  the  baskets ;  leave 


BERRYING.  65 

your  shawl  on  the  ground.  O  Many,  this  is  what  I 
call  a  painter's  opportunity!  If  I  could  but  give  such 
coloring  as  I  see  now,  —  Lucy's  face  so  lovely,  so 
fair  on  one  side,  Clapham's  — 

'  Those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like   streams  along  a  field  of   snow'  — 

and  that  snow  against  Clapham's  brown  and'  ruddy 
cheek,  and  that  hair  like  sunbeams  floating  over  his 
massy,  dark  curls,  and  that  chubby  hand  over  his 
shoulder  with  the  handkerchief  of  flowers,  and  you 
all  interwoven  in  the  clematis,  and  the  brook  and  Ilie 
hill  side,  and  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  on  the  distant 
mountain  tops,  —  O,  it  is  a  living  picture !  But  I  can 
do  nothing  with  it,"  he  said,  despairingly,  putting  up 
his  pencil ;  "  perhaps,  hereafter,  I  may  recall  it." 

But  their  happy  day  was  coming  to  an  end;  and 
the  young  people,  released  from  their  sylvan  bondage, 
hastened  homeward,  stopping  only  once  more,  and 
then  at  old  Mrs.  Allen's,  who,  as  Harry  said,  waa 
old  and  lame,  and  should  not  be  forgotten.  They  all 
insisted  on  her  taking  a  portion  from  their  overflowing 
baskets;  and,  as  they  went  away,  richer  for  what  they 


66  BERRYING. 

had  imparted,  the  grateful  old  lady  wiped  a  tear  of 
pleasure  from  her  eyes,  saying,  "  Never  were  there 
just  such  children!  Like  mother,  like  children;  and 
Clapham  —  they  are  sort  of  missionaries  to  him. 
What  a  smile  the  boy  has  !  such  white  teeth !  and 
he  looked  so  happy,  poor  child!" 

Poor  child  he  was  not  that  day  —  not  to  be  pitied. 
"We  have  had  a  real  good  time  —  a  lucky  day,"  he 
said  to  his  young  friends,  as  they  bade  good  night; 
and  he  went  off  to  sell  his  berries  in  the  village,  to 
buy  the  snuff  for  his  mother,  and,  last  of  all,  to  restore 
Mr.  Lyman's  purse.  Lyman  said  he  had  not  yet 
missed  it ;  and,  counting  the  money,  he  said,  "  There's 
not  a  penny  gone.  I  never  should  have  known  where 
I  lost  it,  or  suspected  who  found  it,"  he  said.  "Clap- 
ham,"  he  added,  "you  are  more  honest  than  you  have 
the  name  of  being." 

"I  am,"  replied  Clapham,  blushing,  but  returning 
his  glance  with  a  steady  eye.  "You  shall  be  re 
warded  though,  Clapham ; "  and  Mr.  Lyman  offered  him 
all  the  silver  the  purse  contained. 

"  I  do  not  wish    any  reward,"  Clapham   said ;    "  but 


BERRYING.  67 

one  thing,  Mr.  Lyman,  I  ask  of  you.  Be  kind  enough 
not  to  tell  any  one  that  you  lost  the  purse,  or  that  I 
found  it." 

"Why,  how  odd,  Clapham!" 

"Will  you  promise  this,  sir?" 

"Yes.     But  you  are  a  strange  boy." 

"Perhaos  1  am,"  said  Clapham;    and  they  parted 


68  A    CONFESSION. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
A   CONFESSION. 

"  He  built  a  foundation  of  Repentance  with  the  strong  cement 
of  Sincerity.  Thereupon  was  placed  the  superstructure  or  Hope, 
on  whose  summit  the  light  of  Heaven  steadily  shone." 

ON  the  Thursday  evening  following,  Clapham  ap 
peared  at  Mrs.  Davis's  door.  A  change  seemed 
to  have  come  over  his  spirit  since  the  pleasant  berry 
ing  day.  He  looked  more  neglected,  sadder,  more 
troubled,  than  usual.  Nothing  in  particular  had  oc 
curred  to  make  him  so;  but  his  present  life,  in  con 
sequence  of  his  association  with  the  Davises.  and  of  the 
hopes  Harry  had  inspired,  and  the  prospects  his  friend 
had  set  before  him,  was  becoming  more  distasteful  to 
him,  and  his  wretched  home  more  and  more  hateful. 
He  felt  too,  more  and  more,  the  burden  of  an  uncon- 
fessed  sin  on  his  mind ;  and  he  was  constantly  tor 
mented  with  the  fear  that  if  Harry  knew  all,  he  might 
withdraw  his  friendship. 


A    CONFESSION.  69 

Norman,  as  usual,  had  sent  his  jug  down  to  be 
filled,  and  Clapham  had  left  it  behind  a  rose-bush 
at  the  gate.  He  had  sold  a  string  of  fish  in  the 
village,  reserving  a  half  dozen,  which  he  asked  Mrs. 
Davis  to  accept.  "There  is  but  one  trout,"  he  said; 
"  and  that  I  brought  for  little  Lucy,  she  is  so  fond 
of  counting  the  bright  spots  on  them.  Where  is  she, 
Mrs.  Davis?" 

"  In  the  bed-room,  Clapham.  Poor  little  Lucy  is 
not  well ;  go  in  and  show  her  the  trout.  Thank 
you  for  the  fish,  Clapham ;  it's  the  gift  in  season. 
I  had  nothing  fresh  in  the  house  for  father  —  he  is 
very  fond  of  fish." 

"  I  wish  Mrs.  Davis  would  keep  the  fish  to  her 
self,"  thought  Clapham;  but  he  did  not  say  it.  He 
proceeded  to  the  bed-room.  Lucy's  cheek,  burning 
with  fever,  dimpled  at  his  approach.  She  was  de 
lighted  with  the  trout,  and  still  more  delighted  with 
a  bunch  of  fresh  fringed  gentian  which  Clapham 
had  brought  to  her,  and  which  Annie  promised  to  tie 
into  one  of  Lucy's  favorite  wreaths.  "  How  pretty ! " 
said  Lucy,  pulling  open  one  of  the  flowers ;  "  as 


70  A    CONFESSION. 

blue  as  the  blue  sky."  Annie  took  up  the  word, 
and  quoted  a  stanza  from  Bryant's  Fringed  Gentian. 

"Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky ; 
Blue  —  blue  —  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall." 

"  Why,  that's  just  what  I  said !  "  resumed  Lucy. 
"  How  kind  you  are,  Clapham !  O  Annie ! "  she 
added,  and  drew  Annie  down  to  the  bed  and  whis 
pered  to  her;  and  Annie  took  from  her  work-basket 
a  pocket-handkerchief  on  which  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  was  printed.  Harry  had  bought  it  with 
money  of  his  own  earning,  to  give  to  Clapham. 
Little  Lucy  had  hemmed  one  of  its  sides,  her  first 
"real  sewing,"  she  said,  for  she  counted  the  patch 
work  on  which  she  had  learned  for  nothing.  Annie 
had  finished  the  hemming,  and  marked  Clapham's 
name  full  out.  Lucy  told  its  history,  and  said,  "  Now, 
Clapham, 

'You  must  keep  it  as  long  as   you  live, 
And  never  lose   it,  and  never  give.' " 

"Never!    never!"    said    Clapham;    "and    I    thank 
you   all   a  thousand   times." 


A    CONFESSION.  71 

"And  that  is  quite  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Davis. 
"Now,  Clapham,  will  you  lend  Harry  a  hand  at  carry 
ing  my  clothes  home  for  Mrs.  Dawson  and  the  other  la 
dies  ?  "  Clapham,  as  always,  was  ready.  "  And,  Harry," 
added  Mrs.  Davis,  "take  a  vial,  and  get  some  castor- 
oil,  at  Johnson's,  for  Lucy.  Bring  a  light  here,  Annie. 
I  must  get  out  some  money  to  pay  for  it." 

Annie  brought  in  a  candle,  and  Mrs.  Davis  went  to 
a  bureau  which  stood  near  a  small  sliding  window, 
opened  a  drawer,  and  took  from  a  box  a  purse  con 
taining  all  her  treasure,  the  product  of  a  summer's 
washing  for  a  large  family  from  New  York,  who  had 
been  boarding  in  the  village,  and  who  had  paid  her, 
ungrudgingly,  New  York  prices.  She  had,  in  her  own 
mind,  appropriated  every  shilling  of  it  to  some  good  to 
be  obtained  for  her  children.  No  wonder  she  looked 
at  it  with  pride  and  pleasure.  A  small  sum,  hardly 
earned,  gives  more  happiness  to  the  contented  laborer 
than  a  great  amount  of  riches  to  the  rich  man.  Thus 
a  kind  Providence  throws  in  compensations ! 

While  Mrs.  Davis  was  selecting  a  quarter  of  a 
dollar  from  a  handful  of  silver  in  her  hand,  on  which 


2  A    CONFESSION. 

til  3  candle  was  gleaming,  there  was  a  noise  against 
the  outside  of  the  house,  by  the  window. 

"What's  that,  mother?"  asked  Annie,  starting. 

"  It's  the  cow,"  said  Harry,  "  knocking  down  father's 
model  plough ! " 

"  But  I  thought  I  saw  a  shadow  of  something,"  said 
Annie. 

"  No  doubt ;  and  a  '  shadow '  of  any  thing  is  enough 
to  scare  you.  What  harm  can  a  shadow  do  you, 
Annie  ?  " 

"But  there  is  always  a  substance  where  there  is  a 
shadow,  Harry." 

"Nonsense,  Annie!  I  wish  you  would  not  be  a 
goose,  like  other  girls.  Come,  Clap,  let  us  go.  Per 
haps  we  shall  meet  this  dreadful  'substance,'  Annie." 
The  young  people  laughed,  little  dreaming  that  Annie 
had  seen  indeed  a  substance  and  the  shadow  of  a 
fearful  coming  event! 

The  boys,  after  depositing  the  snow-white  clothes, 
proceeded  to  Mr.  Johnson's  shop  —  Clapham  to  fill  the 
jug,  and  Harry  the  vial.  The  shop  was  closed. 

"Deuce  take  it!"  said  Clapham;  "just  my  luck!" 


A    CONFESSION.  73 

"  Never  mind.  Clap ;  you  can  go  on  to  Smith's  shop, 
or,  what  is  still  better,  take  your  jug  home  empty." 

"Yes,  and  get  a  beating,  that  father  has  promised 
me  if  I  bring  it  home  empty ;  and  this  is  the  only  kind 
of  promise  he  keeps.  I  have  spent  two  hours  trying 
to  sell  my  fish;  and  but  for  the  New  York  people,  I 
should  not  have  got  a  penny  in  cash.  Our  Salisbury 
folks  know  where  money  goes  that  comes  to  us.  But, 
Harry,  are  you  not  coming  along  with  me  to  Smith's  ? " 
"No;  mother  told  me,  if  I  did  not  find  Johnson's 
open,  to  get  the  oil  at  the  doctor's." 

"  O !    but,  Harry,  I  say,  do  go  to  Smith's  with  me." 
"I  am  in  a  hurry,  Clap,  to  get  home." 
"We  won't  be  a  minute;  we'll  run  all  the  way." 
"Thank  you,  I  am  too  tired  to  run.     I   have  been 
on  foot  to  Canaan  to-day,  for  father." 
"Do  come,  Harry." 

"I  cannot,  Clap;  mother  will  want  me." 
But  Clapham,  contrary  to  his   usual  habit,  insisted, 
almost  with  tears ;  and  when  Harry  said,  "  Why,  what 
is  the  matter,  Clap?  can't  you  go   alone?"   he  replied, 

"  No,  I  cannot ; "  and,  turning  off,  he  muttered,  "  I'll  go 
7 


74  A    CONFESSION 

home,  and  ,ake  the  beating,  and  .nam  will  cry  because 
I  have  not  got  her  snuff.  Hang  it!  I  wish  we  were 
all  dead  together!" 

"  O,  mercy,  Clapham !  don't  talk  so.  I  will  go  with 
you ;  but  what  is  the  reason  you  cannot  go  to  Smith's 
without  me?" 

"Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell  you  no  lies, 
Harry."  Not  another  word  was  spoken  till  they  got 
to  Smith's,  excepting  that  once,  when  they  paused  for 
breath,  Clapham  said,  "  Harry,  you've  got  a  home.  We 
live  in  hell."  The  upper  part  of  the  shop-door  was 
of  glass.  "Stop  a  minute,"  said  Clapham,  as  Harry 
put  his  hand  on  the  latch;  and  then,  keenly  reconnoi 
tring  the  shop,  he  added,  "Mr.  Smith  is  not  in;  you 
may  open  the  door,  Harry." 

The  boys  drew  up  to  the  counter,  and  stood  quietly 
there,  while  the  only  clerk  in  the  shop  served  two 
women.  Clapham  hid  his  jug  as  well  as  he  could 
with  his  tattered  frock  coat  In  a  few  moments,  the 
clerk's  eye  fell  upon  them.  Harry  perceived  his 
countenance  changed  at  the  sight  of  Clapham ;  he  per 
ceived,  too,  that  Clapham  drew  nearer  to  him.  The 


A    CONFESSION.  75 

clerk  continued  eyeing  him  askance,  while  he  tied  up 
the  women's  parcels ;  that  finished,  he  approached  the 
boys.  Harry  asked  for  the  oil,  and  Clapham,  laying 
down  a  half  dollar,  asked  for  a  half  gallon  of  rum,  and 
a  quarter  of  Scotch  snuff. 

The  clerk  half  smiled  as  he  turned  away  and  went 
to  the  farther  extremity  of  the  shop,  where  a  high 
writing-desk  was  placed.  The  boys  now  perceived 
that  the  master  of  the  shop  was  sitting  behind  it;  and 
Harry  was  conscious  that  this  discovery  caused  Clap- 
ham  slightly  to  tremble.  The  clerk  spoke  so  low  to 
Mr.  Smith  that  they  could  not  hear  a  word  he  said; 
but,  as  what  passed  came  out  afterwards,  there  is  no 
harm  in  telling  it  in  this  place. 

"  Clapham  Dunn  is  in  the  store,  sir,"  said  the  clerk. 

"He  is,  is  he?"  said  Mr.  Smith,  starting  from  his 
chair;  but,  on  perceiving  Harry  Davis,  he  sat  down 
again.  "  Did  he  come  in  with  Harry  Davis  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  they  seemed  to  be  in  company.  He 
wants  Him  and  snuff,  of  course.  He  has  got  the  money 
in  hand." 


76  A    CONFESSION 

"Well,  you  may  keep  dark  this  time.  Draw  the 
rum  for  him." 

Mr.  Smith  was  partly  influenced  by  the  presence 
of  Harry,  partly,  we  fear,  by  the  opportunity  of  sell 
ing  the  rum.  Thank  God,  the  days  are  passed  when 
every  shop  had  its  barrel  of  rum,  where  the  poor  man 
found  a  ready  temptation  to  part  with  his  small  gains; 
where  such  boys  as  Clapbam  Dunn  began  their  ap 
prenticeship  to  vice  and  ruin;  and  such  wretches  as 
his  father  found  the  means  of  drowning  the  conscious 
ness  of  misery  and  guilt ;  and  where  decent  men,  like 
Mr.  Elam  Smith,  could  quietly  sell  this  poison  to  body 
and  soul,  pocket  the  money,  reckon  up  their  gains, 
and  fancy  all  the  sin  was  at  the  buyers'  door! 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  the  boys  had  done  their 
business,  and  left  the  shop. 

Hurried  as  Harry  felt,  his  curiosity  was  too  strongly 
excited  to  be  deferred.  It  was  not  idle  curiosity;  his 
best  feelings  were  touched  by  Clapham's  attachment  to 
him,  and  dependence  on  him,  and,  perceiving  he  had 
the  power  to  serve  him,  he  had  the  will  too.  "Tell 
me,  Clapha.-n,"  he  said,  "what  does  all  this  mean?" 


A    CONFESSION.  77 

u  What  ?  "  asked  Clapham,  without  raising  his  eyes 

"You  know  what  I  mean." 

"So  I  do,  Harry,"  he  answered,  now  honestly  turn 
ing  up  his  face,  and  looking  his  friend  in  the  eye. 
"  And  I  will  tell  you.  I  declare  I  will  tell  you  all ; 
but,  hang  it,  I  can't  tell  it  now;  it's  a  long  story,  and 
a  bad  one." 

"Well,  make  a  long  story  short,  Clap,  and  have  it 
off  your  mind ;  you'll  have  time  before  we  come  to  the 
turn." 

"But,  Harry,  you'll  despise  me,  and  so  will  your 
mother,  and  Annie,  and  little  Lucy,  and  I  could  not 
stand  it.  You'll  never  go  a  fishing  with  me  again; 
they'll  never  speak  to  me." 

"Clapham,  you  don't  know  them;  you  don't  know 
me.  I'll  stick  by  a  friend  through  thick  and  thin." 

"But,  Harry  there  is  too  much  thick ;  you  won't 
go  it" 

"I'll  start  fair  with  you,  Clapham.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  go.  You  must  speak  just  the  whole  truth 
to  mo,  and  then  I  shall  be  sure  of  a  foundation  to 
stand  on,  and,  standing  on  that,  with  a  long  pull,  and 


78  A    CONFESSION. 

a  strong  pull,  and  a  pull  both  together,  we'll  get  you 
out  of  the  mire  if  you  are  ever  so  deep  in." 

Clapham  began,  and  told  his  story,  at  first  with  a 
faltering  voice,  but,  as  he  went  on,  with  a  firmer 
tone. 

We  must  go  a  little  farther  back,  in  Clapham's 
history,  than  Clapham's  limited  time  allowed  him  to 
co,  or  than  he  could  have  done. 

But  Clapham  was  born  in  a  jail,  and,  from  his 
earliest  recollection,  his  parents  had  been  skulking 
from  one  place  to  another,  living  on  the  outskirts  of 
villages,  on  the  borders  of  Massachusetts,  Connecticut, 
or  New  York,  where  these  three  states  meet,  and  afford 
a  very  convenient  neighborhood  for  those  who  evade 
the  laws  by  what  is  called  dodging  flie  line!  Norman 
was  a  strong,  well-built  man.  He  often  boasted  that 
he  could  travel  farther  in  a  day,  and  fast  longer,  than 
any  man  he  ever  knew.  He  could  endure  wet,  and 
heat  and  cold,  without  flinching.  He  would  sometimes 
live  out,  roaming  about  the  woods  for  a  week  together, 
and  then  come  home,  and  eat,  drink,  and  sleep,  for  a 
week.  He  had  never  been  taught  to  read  or  write. 


A    CONFESSION.  79 

This  was  a  soiuce  of  deep  mortification  to  him.  But  it 
was  a  greater  disadvantage  than  Norman  was  aware  of. 
Norman  was  naturally  proud  of  his  size  and  strength, 
and  power  of  endurance,  and  he  was  humbled  when  he 
saw  a  little  fellow,  whom  he  said  he  could  throw  over 
the  tallest  pine-tree  in  the  woods,  really  his  superior, 
and,  because  he  could  read  and  write,  able  to  take  a 
place,  and  keep  it,  among  his  fellow-men.  Norman 
had'  the  qualities  that  distinguish  a  savage.  If  he 
had  been  born  among  the  Indians,  he  might  have  been 
their  chief  and  led  them.  But  knowledge  is  necessary 
to  live  in  society,  and  knowledge  and  goodness  are 
the  only  true  distinctions  between  man  and  man,  in  a 
social  state.  We  may  have  an  equality  of  rights  and 
privileges ;  in  this  favored  country  we  have.  Riches 
do  not  make  a  man  more  respectable  or  happier  than 
his  neighbor.  Knowledge  does.  We  are  forced  to 
respect  those  that  know  more  than  we  do.  We  feel 
that,  other  things  being  equal,  a  superior  education 
gives  the  man  who  has  it  a  power  superior  to  ours. 
Norman  Dunn  felt  this,  and  it  galled  him.  He  felt  it 
tne  more,  because  by  nature  he  had  a  good  head,  and 


80  A    CONFESSION. 

he  felt  it  the  more  bitterly  because  he  had  not  the 
virtues  and  good  feelings  that,  more  than  any  thing 
else,  compensate  for  the  want  of  education.  An  in 
dustrious,  honest,  kind-hearted  man  may  hold  up  his 
head  beside  the  wisest  man  and  the  greatest  scholar 
in  the  world.  But  neither  honesty,  nor  any  thing  akin 
to  it,  had  Norman  Dunn.  He  had  just  enough  sense 
of  right  to  feel  his  degradation,  to  hate  to  come  in 
contact  with  his  fellow-men;  so  he  sulkily  shunned 
them.  Clapham's  mother  was  a  poor  outcast,  half 
Dutch,  half  Yankee.  She  was  lazy,  dirty,  and  shiftless. 
She  was  never  very  bright,  and  so  between  drinking, 
snuffing,  and  Norman's  hard  usage,  the  little  light  she 
originally  had  was  nearly  put  out.  One  virtue  we 
must  give  her  credit  for; — how  she  came  by  it  nobody 
could  tell ;  —  but  Massy  Dunn  was  never  known  to 
take  any  thing  that  belonged  to  another.  She  ate  of 
stolen  turkeys,  fowls,  and  eggs,  without  asking  a  quds- 
tion.  She  had  been  found  sleeping  in  sheets  pilfered 
from  the  clothes-lines  of  a  neighboring  village.  She 
cut  up  and  made  over  for  Clapham  many  a  garment 
which  she  knew  her  husband  had  stolen;  but  never 


A    CONFESSION.  81 

was  she   known  to  take  a  penny's  worth  herself.     We 
is ;    we  only  state    the    fact.      It 
I    measure,  our    friend   Clapham's 
iis  father's  trade. 

vitJi  me,"  he  said  to  Harry,  "when 
not  six  years  old;  and  before  I 
many  a  hen's-nest,  and  many  a 
Since  then,  I  have  done,  in 

the  main,  better.  I  have  taken  many  a  beating  rather 
than  do  as  father  bid  me,  and  his  hand  is  heavy,  and 
cruel  hard,  Harry.  Once  he  wrenched  my  shoulder 
out  of  joint,  and  another  time  he  broke  two  of  my 
finger-bones. 

"Last  spring  I  did  chores  for  Mr.  Smith,  and  he 
paid  me  in  notions,  —  a  little  molasses,  and  rum  for 
father,  and  now  and  then  a  codfish,  and  so  on.  He 
got  a  great  deal  out  of  me,  and  gave  me  but  little 
for  it;  but  there's  few  that  would  employ  father's  boy; 
so  I  had  to  take  what  I  could  get.  He  trusted  me, 
and  I  felt  beholden  to  him  for  that,  and  never  so 
much  as  took  a  nut  of  any  kind,  or  raisin,  though 
I  passed  the  box  twenty  times  a  day.  I  hated 


82  A    CONFESSION. 

thieving  and  lying,  I  can't  tell  why,  brought  up  as 
I  have  been;  but  as  true  as  truth  is  truth,  I  did;  and 
yet  —  O  dear!  —  the  day  came  that  I  found  I  waa 
just  father's  own  son,  and  nothing  else. 

"There  was  a  traveller,  one  evening,  stopped  at 
the  shop  to  buy  an  umbrella.  Mr.  Smith  was  called 
off.  The  man  took  the  umbrella,  laid  down  the 
price,  —  two  half  dollars,  —  and  left  the  shop.  There 
lay  the-  money.  Mr.  Smith  had  not  seen  it.  The 
traveller  had,  as  I  believed,  passed  on  out  of  town. 
There  was  to  be  a  training,  the  next  day,  in  Shef 
field,  and  a  menagerie  was  coming  there,  and  for 
two  days  I  had  heard  folks  talking  over  the  adver 
tisement  of  it  that  was  up  in  Mr.  Smith's  shop,  with 
pictures  of  all  the  animals  around  it.  You  have  seen 
such,  Harry.  Of  all  things  in  the  world,  I  wanted 
most  to  see  the  animals.  Every  body  was  going  but 
I.  There  the  money  lay.  If  I  took  it,  I  could  go. 
Father  would  let  me,  I  knew,  if  I  gave  him  the  half 
of  it.  Still  I  held  back.  I  heard  Smith  coming,  and 
I  thought  he  had  never  paid  me  half  he  must  have 
paid  another  boy  for  the  work  I  did,  and  I  —  took  it 


A    CONFESSION.  83 

Yes,  Harry,  I   stole   it!      Father  was  not  by.      ft  was 
Sfobody  told    me    to    take    it.     This 

Now   you  know  all." 

Mr.  Smith  find  it  out?" 

I  found    it    out.     The   traveller   had 

of  a  mile  when   it  began  to  rain, 

thing   the   matter    with    the    spring 

of.  the  umbrella ;  so  he  came  back  to   change  it     He 

then   told   Mr.    Smith    he    had    put   the    money  on   the 

counter.     Mr.  Smith  charged  me  with  stealing  it,  and 

he    thrust    his    hand    into   my   pocket,    and    found    it 

Then  he   called  me   every  thing,  and  twitted   me  with 

my  father  and   mother,  and   I   got  mad,  and   told   him, 

if   he'd    been    honest    by    me,    and    paid    me    what    I 

earned,  I  should  have  been  honest  by  him.     Then  he 

turned  me   out,  and  told  me  never  to  darken  his  doors 

again.     Now,    Harry,    you    know    all."     Clapham    was 

silent   for   a   moment     Harry  said    nothing.     "  I    knew 

it  would  be  so,"  resumed  Clapham,  his  voice  trembling 

so  that  he  could   scarcely  articulate ;    "  you   know    me, 

now,  for  a   thief,  —  a   thief  on   my    own   hook,  —  and 

you  can't  be  friends  with  me,  any  way."    Harry  hes- 


84  A    CONFESSION. 

itated  one  moment,  and  but  one.  "Yes,  one  way,  i 
can,"  he  said  ;  "  the  Scripture  way,  —  *  Go,  and  sin 
no  more.'  Mother  often  says  to  us,  '  God  forgives  the 
penitent,  and  how  dare  we  not  to  forgive  our  fellow- 
creatures  ? '  I  believe  you,  Clapham ;  I  believe  you 
have  told  me  the  truth,  and  the  whole  truth,  and  I'll 
stand  by  you  so  long  as  you'll  stand  straight." 

Clapham  turned  his  eyes,  streaming  with  tears,  on 
Harry,  and  his  face  beamed  with  an  expression  of 
gratitude  and  joy  which  Harry  never  forgot.  "Thank 
ye,  thank  ye,  Harry ! "  he  said,  in  a  subdued  voice. 
"  This  is  more  than  your  saving  me  from  drowning 
I  thought  I  could  pay  you  for  that ;  I  never  can  foi 
this." 

The  boys  separated.  "If  I  am  ever  good  for  any 
thing,"  thought  Clapham,  as  he  pursued  his  way  alone, 
"  I  shall  have  Harry  Davis  to  thank  for  it.  I  might 
have  been  punished,  and  talked  to,  and  preached  to 
forever,  but  it  would  not  have  done  it.  Harry  believes 
me;  he's  friends  with'  me,  and  that  keeps  me  from 
despising  myself;  and  when  I  am  with  Harry's  folks, 
I  feel  as  if  I  might  be  something  if  I  could  get  out 


A    CONFESSION.  85 

of   his  clutches."       No   wonder   that    Clapham,   in   his 
giving    the    name   of   father  to 
was  like  a  cruel  fate  to  him. 
ons    rose    before    him    as    he,  that 
4  solitary  way.     The   Davises  were 
all    his   castles    in    the    air.     His 
rargin  of   Rhigi's   brook;    it    glit- 
*    in    the    moonlight.       The    leaves 
scarcely  stirred   as   the    soft,  night    breezes    stole    over 
them.     Clapham  stopped  for  a  moment,  conscious  of  a 
new  feeling,  and  gazed  around   him  with  sensations  he 
had  never  before  experienced.      Is  there  not  something 
in  the  soul   that   answers,    like   an    echo,    to  the  music 
of  nature  ? 

"  'Tis   softer  than  the  west  wind's  sigh; 
'Tis   wilder   than   th'  unmeasured  notes 
Of   that   strange   lyre,   whose   strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep." 

This    poor  mountain-boy  felt   this   something  within 
him  vibrating -to   the   voice   of   nature.     He  looked   up ' 
to   the   vast,  bright   firmament,  and    a   feeling   of  awe, 
an  indefinite  sense   of  God's  presence,  without  fear   or 
dread,  stol<?    over    him.     Perhaps    it    was    that    Harry's 


86  A    CONFESSION. 

kindness  to  him  had  inspired  a  sense  of  God's  infinite 
goodness  and  lovex  of  whiili  it  was  the  true,  thougn 
faint  image;  however  that  might  >3,  there  was  a  new 
feeling.  He  turned  from  the  brook  into  the  wood, 
where  the  trees  were  so  thick  that  scarcely  a  ray  of 
light  penetrated  to  the  path  he  followed.  Suddenly 
he  emerged  into  an  open  space,  where  the  broad,  yel 
low  moon  sent  in  her  light,  intercepted  only  by  the 
shadow  of  the  tall  trees,  that,  like  a  wall,  enclosed  it 
It  was  a  startling  contrast  to  the  darkness  from  which 
he  had  come.  Impulsively,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  he  fell  upon  his  knees.  Every  feeling  in  his 
bosom  Avas  a  true  prayer.  Few,  untaught,  and  simple, 
were  the  words  he  uttered.  There  was  a  struggling 
cry  for  pardon  for  the  past,  and  strength  for  the  future, 
and  a  burst  of  gratitude  for  his  friend. 

It  was  sincere  desire  —  true  prayer.  Of  such  it 
is  that  God  says,  "I  will  hear  ye  when  ye  cry  unto 
me." 

A  half  hour  after,  Clapham  entered  his  father's  hu; 
with  an  indescribable  loathing.  It  was  filled  with 
smoke,  made  visible  by  a  blaze,  over  which  Massy  waa 


A    CONFESSION.  87 

frying  a  mess  of  fish,  pork,  and  onions,  the  fumes  of 
which,  mingling  with  the  smoke  of  Norman's  pipe, 
settled  about  the  beams  and  rafters.  A  cross-pole  was 
garnished  with  broken  kettles,  baskets,  gourds,  dried 
herbs,  strings  of  apples,  and  strips  of  drying  pumpkin. 
A  blackened  and  greasy  table,  with  a  molasses  jug, 

and  broken  brown  ware,  was  set  out  for  supper. 

"  Sure  it  was  all  a  grievous,  odious  scene, 
Where  all  was  dismal,  melancholy,  mean; 
unwholesome  and  unclean." 

Norman  was  half  reclining  in  one  corner,  on  a 
filthy  pile,  called  a  bed.  .He  growled  at  Clapham, 
as  he  entered,  for  his  long  delay ;  and,  seizing  the 
jug,  he  took  a  heavy  draught  from  it. 

Massy  received  her  portion  rather  more  parentally, 
and  thanked  Clapham  as  she  untied  her  parcel  of 
snuff.  The  knot  was  difficult,  and  Massy's  fingera 
none  of  the  steadiest.  Norman  called  out  to  her,  with 
a  curse,  that  her  fat  was  on  fire,  and  she'd  burn  them 
all  up  alive.  In  turning  hastily  to  extinguish  the 
flame,  she  spilt  her  snuff  into  the  mess.  Norman, 
enraged  at  the  prospect  of  losing  his  supper,  sprang 
off  his  lair,  and  began  beating  her.  Massy  screamed. 


A    CONFESSION. 

A  tired  hound,  that   had  been  sleeping    at.  full    length 
before  the  fire,  joined,  growling,  ir 

It  was    such    scenes   as   these, 
Clapham  say  to  Harry  Davis,  "  Y(i«  1 
live  in  a  hell ! "     No,  not  quite  a  li 
f-bere  one  spirit  capable  of  love  a 


A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 


CHAPTER    V 

COM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

nh  his  sacred  seal  has  set 
On  bright  and  by-gone  houra  ; 
And  they  we  mourn  are  with  us  yet, 
Are  more  than  ever  ours." 

HARRY    DAVIS    t9ok    his    homeward   way    with    a 
light   heart,  and  entered  his  mother's   door   with 
a   joyous   spring.     The    tea-table   was   neatly   prepared 
for    that    pleasantest    of  New   England    rustic    meals, 
"the  tea." 

There  were  few  industrious  and  sober  people  in 
the  county  poorer  than  the  Davises.  But  poverty,  in 
its  received  sense,  is  not  a  word  applicable  to  any 
such  American  family.  Wha;  would  a  starving  house 
wife  in  an  Irish  shanty,  or  one  of  the  poor  peasant 
women  of  the  continent  of  Europe,  say  to  Mrs.  Davis's 
tea-table,  with  its  white  cloth,  its  whole  and  fitting 


80  A   VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

earthen  ware,  its  bright  knives,  its  tea  sugsr,  and 
cream,  its  white  bread,  blackberry  pie,  and  frieu  fish  ? 

"This  looks  comfortable,"  said  Davis,  obeying  the 
pleasant  announcement,  "Tea  is  ready!"  and  turning 
his  chair  around  from  his  desk  and  his  inventions. 
"I  have  done  a  good*  job  at  head-work  to-day,"  he 
added,  "and  have  had  nothing  to  eat  but  a  slice  of 
bread  and  some  knick-knacks  the  neighbors  sent  in  for 
Lucy.  Mother  is  so  notional,  she  won't  let  the  poor 
child  touch  them." 

"Ah!  but,  father,"  interposed  Annie,  "the  doctor 
said,  if  there  were  more  people  would  do  as  mother 
does,  and  give  to  the  well  the  custards,  and  cake, 
and  sweetmeats,  the  neighbors  send  in  for  the  sick, 
they  would  save  a  great  many  patients  from  his 
han  j.- 

"  Tut '  nonsense,  Annie  —  as  if  sickness  did  not 
come  of  itself,  or  when  the  Lord  chooses  to  send  it. 
How  came  Lucy  sick?  I  should  like  to  know  that 
Your  mother  keeps  her  on  bread  and  milk,  and  pota 
toes  and  meat  not  above  once  a  day.  How  came  she 
brought  up  with  a  fever  ?  " 


A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  91 

"The  doctor  says,  sir,  it  was  brought  on  by  the 
unripe  plums  you  gave  her  at  Deacon  Carr's.  When 
fevers  are  about,  doctor  says  they  will  set  in  upon 
any  bad  derangement  of  the  stomach." 

"O,  that's  nothing  but  a  new-fangled  notion. 
Children  eat  every  thing.  I  have  eaten  just  what  I 
fancied,  and  all  the  tasty  things  I  could  get  all  my 
life,  and  I  never  had  a  fever."  Davis's  lank,  sallow 
cheeks  were  not  the  best  evidence  of  his  wise  mode 
of  living  ;  and,  —  poor  man !  —  as  little  Lucy  became 
worse  from  day  to  day,  he  silently  resolved  never 
again  to  give  his  children  unripe  fruit.  Alas !  the 
wisdom  only  learned  by  failure  comes  too  late.  We 
have  seldom  the  same  experience  twice. 

Mrs.  Davis  did  not  reproach  her  husband.  She 
was  not  of  those  who  find  relief  in  imputing  blame. 
She  hoped,  from  day  to  day,  that  little  Lucy  would  be 
better.  She  took  the  whole  care  of  the  child,  with  the 
aid  of  Harry  and  Annie.  She  would  not  follow  the 
common  rural  custom  of  letting  in  upon  the  patient 
all  the  kind  neighbors  who  call  to  express  sympathy  and 
offer  aid.  She  had  often  observed  sick  children  either 


92  A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

shrinking    from    the    touch   of  strangers,    or   too    much 

excited  by  them.     Contrary  to  all  usage-  in  -ew-wr-*— - 

parts,  she    declined  watchers;    and 

kind  friends    to  accept  their  server 

I  could  not   sleep   soundly  Avhile 

she  had  the  best  watcher  in  Salis^n  • 

her,  and  Avake   at   her  least   move        '.      It   is  ;• 

tax  upon  me,  but  it  is  a  hard  strain    upas  tact 

have  always    been   against    having  Avatchers  Avhen   you 

can  help  it,  and  I  wish  to  be  consistent." 

"  Consistent "  good  Mrs.  Davis  was  in  making  all  the 
detail  of  her  life  a  manifestation  of  her  theory  of  her  duty. 
Davis  never  watched.  "He  Avas  a  remarkable  heavy 
sleeper,"  he  said ;  "  watching  never  agreed  Avith  him ! " 

There  Avas  one  visitor  only  excepted  from  the  gen 
eral  prohibition  —  the  poor,  outcast  Clapham.  He  was 
expected  daily,  watched  for  by  Lucy,  and  Avelcomed 
with  her  sweetest  smile  and  out-stretched  hand.  The 
doctor  prescribed  feverbush  tea,  and  Clapham,  of 
course,  brought  the  feverbush  from  the  mountain. 
The  next  day,  winter-greens  Avere  recommended,  and 
each  day  some  rural  febrifuge,  Avhich  Clapham's  wood- 


A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  93 

craft  enabled  him  to  supply.  With  the  herbs,  Clap- 
ham  brought  strings  of  bright  berries,  which  Annie 
strung,  and  Lucy  amused  herself,  at  her  best  intervals, 
with  wreathing  around  her  white  arms.  The  flowers 
were  few  and  faded  on  the  hill  side  and  by  the  brook, 
but  the  lovely  fringed  gentian  was  still  in  perfection, 
and  Clapham  had  always  a  handful  of  these,  which  he 
called  "Lucy's  flowers." 

"I  do  wish,  Clapham,"  said  Lucy,  " that  you  and 
Harry  would  carry  me  along  the  brook,  and  lay  me 
down  on  the  soft  grass,  where  the  cool  wind  blows, 
and  where  I  could  drink  all  the  time.  Here  it's  so 
hot!  Feel,  how  my  hand  burns!  You  will  carry  me 
there  when  I  am  a  little  better,  won't  you,  boys?" 
Both  boys  eagerly  promised ;  but  alas !  the  cruel  dis 
ease  was  making  rapid  progress. 

The  next  day,  when,  as  usual,  Clapham  came  in  late 
in  the  afternoon,  the  family,  with  the  exception  of 
Davis,  who  had  gone  of  an  errand  to  the  village,  were 
in  the  little  bed-room.  A  change  had  taken  place. 
Lucy  was  dying.  Her  distress  was  over.  Nature  had 
given  up  the  struggle,  and  her  young  life  was  ebbing 


94  A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

away.    Mrs.  Davis  heard  Clapham  lift  the  latch  of  the 

outer  door,  and  beckoned    to    hin; 

He    did   so,  and   knelt  at  the   foo' 

Lucy  was  supported   by  pillows.     Hie   bile  o 

paled   on   her  cheek.      Her    mot! 

was  of  the  deepest  crimson.      Pie 

knees,  and  so  were  Harry  and  Lucy,  each  holding  one 

of  those  little   hands   that  seemed  Lo  gru&p   eveiy  fibre 

of  their   hearts.      "My  children,    pray  with    me,"    said 

the  mother;  and   in  a  low,  but  perfectly  distinct  voice, 

she  said,   "Our  Father,  who  art  in  heaven.      Hallowed 

be    thy    name.       Thy    kingdom    come.       Thy    will    be 

done "      She   stopped.       There    needed    no    more. 

These    all-comprehending    words     expressed     the     un 
bounded    prayer    of    her    heart ;     her    faith    that    God 
was  her  Father,   the  Father  of  her  children;   her  de 
sire  to  utter  his  name    with  awe   and  love;    her  com 
plete   resignation   of  her  own  hopes    and    purposes    for 
her  child ;  and  the  present  indulgence  of  her  affections. 
As   she   concluded,  Harry  said  to  her,  in   a  low,  trem 
bling    voice,   "Mother,   it  never  before  seemed  to  me 
hard  to  pray  that  prayer!" 


A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  96 

"Is  it  hard,  now,  my  son?" 

"Hard?     Yes,  mother." 

"It  should  not  be,  my  children.  We  give  up 
little  Lucy  to  wiser,  greater  love  than  ours.  The 
kingdom  of  heaven  is  coming  to  her.  No  more  pahi 
for  her " 

Lucy  at  this  moment  opened  her  eyes,  and  con 
sciousness,  without  pain,  revived.  There  was  even  a 
slight  movement  of  her  lips  to  kiss  her  mother,  and,  as 
her  mother  pressed  hers  to  her,  she  faintly,  but  per 
ceptibly  smiled,  and  with  her  finger  made  a  beckoning 
motion  to  Clapham  to  come  nearer.  He  rose  and 
knelt  by  Annie.  Lucy  spread  out  her  little  hand  so 
as  to  embrace  both  theirs.  At  this  moment,  the  set 
ting  sun  shone  out  from  a  cloud,  and  its  rays  fell, 
like  a  halo,  around  little  Lucy's  fair  hair. 

"Pretty  moon!"  she  said.  The  mists  of  death 
were  gathering  over  her  sight,  and  the  sun  was  no 
longer  bright  to  her  eye. 

They  all  felt  as  if  they  were  near  the  visible 
presence  of  God.  The  curtain  that  hides  the  other 
world  was  slowly  rising,  and  they  felt  the  beautiful 


90  A.    VOICE    FROM    THF    SPIRIT    LAND. 

reality  of  the  goodness  and  love  to  which  the  precious 

child  was  going.      It    was    not   death. 

immortal  life.      A  solemn  but  not   pain 

vaded    them.      No    one    stirred    or 

looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  th 

on  Harry,  and  he   seemed   unconscious! 

the  glance  in  saying,  " How  I  love  ycc,  rbrlin;; : 

replied,  slowly,  feably,  but  with  perfect  dial' 

that  each  heard  her,  "We — all  —  love  —  one  another!" 

These    were    the    last    words    she    spoke  —  words    that 

bound   them   in  a  sacred    band,  to  be   cruelly  assailed, 

but  ney,er  broken. 

From  this  time,  her  breathing  became  fainter  and 
fainter.  There  was  no  struggle,  and  when  the  twi 
light  had  faded  away,  and  the  stars  began  to  appear, 
she  sank  to  her  rest  as  quietly  as  if  it  had  been  to 
her  night's  sleep. 

The  spell  of  solemn  silence  was  first  broken  bv 
the  sweet  voice  of  the  mother. 

"She  is  gone!  my  children,"  she  said  —  "gone 
to  Him  who  said,  'Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the 


A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  97 

kingdom  of  heaven  —  gone  from  our  sight,  but  not 
from  us." 

"Not  from  us,  mother?"  asked  Annie,  in  a  per 
plexed  tone  of  voice. 

"No,  my  children,  I  hope  not.  I  believe  not. 
Little  Lucy  is  an  angel  now,  and  I  think  she  will 
love  to  be  near  us ;  and  nothing  but  our  evil-doing 
can  separate  us." 

This  was  a  new  thought  to  the  children.  It 
seemed  to  them  to  take  away  the  sting  of  separation, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  to  give  them  an  acute  sense  of 
responsibility,  an  intense  desire  to  be  pure,  so  that  that 
purified  and  loved  spirit  might  dwell  with  them.  Mrs. 
Davis's  calmness,  her  faith,  and  her  gentle  submission, 
had  converted  this  chamber  of  death  into  the  vestibule 
of  heaven.  Death  did  not  appear  to  these  children  the 
king  of  terrors,  but  a  messenger  of  love  who  had  come 
to  take  their  dear  little  companion  to  happiness  and 
immortality,  and  to  inspire  them  with  a  faith  and  hope 
that  taught  them  how  to  value  and  how  to  use  life. 

To  Clapham  it  seemed  a  vision ;  a  revelation  ;  and 
after  all  the  necessary  offices  had  been  performed, 


98  A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND. 

after  the  kind  neighbors  had  come  and  gone,  after 
the  good  village  minister  had  made  his  prayer  with 
the  family,  and  after  he  had  seen  the  form  of  little 
Lucy  laid  out  in  its  white  robes,  her  head  encircled 
with  a  wreath  of  the  fringed  gentians  he  had  brought 
that  afternoon  for  her,  and  on  her  bosom  sweet,  half- 
open  rose-buds  old  Mrs.  Allen  had  sent  in  from  her 
monthly  rose,  —  after  this,  he  took  his  way  homeward. 
Slowly,  thoughtfully  he  went.  Suddenly  a  loathing 
revulsion  from  his  own  most  loathsome  dwelling  came 
over  him;  he  turned  back,  retraced  his  way,  and  lay 
down  on  the  ground  on  the  outside  of  that  little  bed 
room  window.  There  he  waked  and  slept  alternately, 
and  had  visions  of  his  little  friend  now  by  the  brook 
on  Rhigi,  and  now  an  angel  amidst  beauty  and  glory 
that  never  before  had  dawned  on  his  mind.  Thoughts 
of  his  real  condition,  of  his  dreadful  home,  came 
like  demons  among  these  angel  visitations.  The  poor 
boy  was  struggling  in  the  mysteries  of  life.  Still 
there  was  something  that  whispered  hope  and  peace  — 
something  that  breathed  into  his  soul  the  feeling 
expressed  in  the  following  beautiful  stanza. — 


A    VOICE    FROM    THE    SPIRIT    LAND.  99 

"Brother,  the  angels  say, 

Peace  to  thy  heart ! 
We,  too,  0  brother, 

Have  been  as  thou  art  — 
Hope-lifted,  doubt-depresseo, 

Seeing  in  nart, 
Tried,  troubled,  tempted. 
Sustained,  as  them  art.' 


100  A    GATHERING    STORM. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
A    GATHEEING   STOKM 

"  'Twas  past  the  dead  of  night,  when  every  sound 
That  nature  mingles  might  be  heard  around  ; 
But  none  from  man." 

CLAPHAM   did   not  return  to   his  mountain-home  ti7 
late    in    the    afternoon    of   the    next  day.      Hss 
mind   was    full   of  the   holy  scenes   he   had   witnessed. 
He  had  seen   death  for  the  first  time;  and  had  seen 
it,  most  happily  for  himself,  in  the  home  of  the  Chris 
tian,  where    death   was   received    as    God's    messenger, 
sent  to   take  the  most  loved  being  in  the  household 
to    a  happier   home,    to    a    higner    school,   to    the   in 
struction   and   guidance   of   Him   whose   love   and  wis 
dom  are  infinite.     He  had  seen  httie  i^ucy,  the   swee 
nestler  in  every  heart,  given  up  with  calm  submissioi 
The    world    seemed    changed    to    Clapham ;     but    O, 
with   what   weight   it   fell   back  upon   him   as   his   own 


A    GATHEiUftG    StitfR'M.  lO'l 

home  came  in  view  !  His  father  was  sitting  on  the 
door-step  smoking  his  pipe.  He  saw,  through  the 
open  door,  that  his  mother  was  dozing  on  the  bed. 

"Ain't  you  a  pretty  chap?"  said  Norman,  surlily. 
"  Where  have  you  been  browsing  all  night,  and  to 
this  time  of  day?" 

"At  Mr.  Davis's,"  replied  Clapham,  quietly. 

"  That's  one  lie  ;  now  tell  another.  What  have 
you  been  about  there?" 

"I  have  been  seeing  little  Lucy  die." 

"  Do  tell  ? "  said  Norman,  and  a  human  feeling 
stirred  in  his  bosom.  He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe,  and  put  in  fresh  tobacco,  saying,  meanwhile, 
"She  was  the  likeliest-looking  young  one  ever  born 
in  Salisbury.  Sich  as  she  always  die." 

The  last  words  struck  on  Massy's  ear,  and  waked 
her  from  her  dose. 

"Who  is  dead  now?"  she  asked,  not  more  .han 
half  awake. 

"  Not  you,  mam ;  but  you  might  as  well  be," 
replied  her  brutal  lord,  "as  lying  there,  when  I  told 
you  I  was  waiting  for  a  patch  on  my  coat  Up 


102  A 'GATHERING    STORM. 

with  you,  or  I'll  bang  you.  It's  Davis's  girl  that's 
dead,  and  our  Clap  is  chief  mourner." 

"You  have  not  got  no  feelings,  Norman,"  said  the 
gentler  helpmeet ;  "  you're  'tween  man  and  brute  — 
worse  than  neither.  When  is  the  funeral,  Clapham?" 

"  There  is  to  be  no  funeral  here,"  replied  Clap- 
ham.  "Mrs.  Davis  wished  to  lay  little  Lucy  with 
her  people,  and  she  has  taken  her  down  to  the 
Canaan  bury  ing-ground." 

"  Who  went  in  the  procession  ? "  asked  Massy, 
who,  in  common  with  persons  of  her  caste,  was  curious 
about  the  minutiae  of  funerals. 

"  They  had  no  procession.  Mr.  Davis  wanted  to 
have  the  people  collect  and  go  with  them,  but  Mrs. 
Davis  was  very  much  set  on  having  it  quiet;  and  so 
Sheriff  Parley  offered  them  his  wagon  and  horses,  and 
they  went,  at  two  o'clock,  down  to  her  uncle's,  which 
is  near  to  the  bury  ing-ground." 

"Did  they  take  the  corpse,  and  Harry,  and  Annie, 
all  in  one  wagon?" 

"  No ;  only  little  Lucy.  Annie  had  one  of  her 
sick-headaciies,  and  Harry  staid  at  home  with  her." 


A    GATHERING    STORM.  103 

Norman  seemed  very  attentive,  though  as  yet  he 
had  asked  no  question.  He  now,  with  affected  care 
lessness,  demanded  how  long  they  were  to  be  gone. 

"Till  to-morrow  morning,"  Clapham  replied. 

"Good!"  muttered  Norman;  and  then,  his  man 
ner  suddenly  changing,  he  eagerly  asked,  "Are  you 
sure  of  that,  Clap?" 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  went  with  Harry  to  get  the  team, 
and  his  mother  bade  us  tell  Sheriff  Parley  she  should 
return  to-morrow  morning ;  and  she  never  broke  her 
word  in  her  life." 

"I  hope  this  won't  be  a  first  time,"  said  Norman. 
"  What  time  will  they  be  home  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Clapham,  rather  impatient 
at  idle  questions,  (as  he  deemed  them,)  which  grated 
on  his  feelings;  and  he  turned  to  go  away,  not 
caring  whither,  when  his  father  seized  him  by  the 
arm,  and  jerked  him  back.  "Stand  still,  can't  you?" 
said  he ;  "  you  are  as  slippery  as  an  eel."  He 
hemmed  two  or  three  times,  then  cleared  his  throat, 
and  added,  "  She  died  in  the  bed-room,  did  not 
she  r " 


104  A    GATHERING    STORM. 

"Yes;  little  Lucy  and  Annie  always  slept  there 
in  the  trundle-bed." 

"I  should  not  think  them  young  folks  would  like 
sleeping  in  the  room  where  the  corpse  was,"  said 
Norman,  looking,  not  at  Clapham,  but  up  at  the  trees 
He  paused  for  a  moment,  but  eliciting  no  reply  from 
Clapham,  he  added,  "I  say,  Clap,  what  are  you  so 
dumb  for?  Where  are  they  going  to  sleep?" 

Clapham  was  incapable  of  being  irritated,  and  he 
replied,  quietly,  "I  don't  think  they  have  any  fear  to 
sleep  where  little  Lucy  lay,  with  flowers  all  around 
her,  looking  like  an  angel." 

"Well,  then,  the  gal  is  going  to  sleep  in  the 
bed-room,  is  she  ?  " 

Had  not  Clapham's  mind  been  completely  pre 
occupied,  he  might  have  suspected  some  sinister 
motive  in  all  this  questioning;  but  he  did  not,  and 
he  replied  with  the  particularity  his  father  wished. 
"The  bed-room  window  was  open  in  the  morning, 
while  it  rained,  and  the  room  got  damp,  and  Harry's 
mother  told  him  to  move  the  trundle-bed  into  the  kitch 
en,  and  to  bring  down  his  bed  and  sleep  by  Annie." 


A    GATHERING    STORM.  105 

"Will  he  do  it?" 

"I  rather  guess  so,"  replied  Clapham,  with  a 
emile ;  "  the  time  has  not  come  yet  that  Harry  has 
disappointed  his  mother." 

"I  wish  all  young  youth  were  like  him,"  mur 
mured  Massy. 

"And  all  old  mams,  like  you,"  said  Norman;  "that 
would  be  a  nice  fit!  But,  I  say,  Clap,  you  are  sure 
they  sleep  in  the  kitchen?" 

"I  am  sure  I -helped  Harry  fix  the  beds  there, 
before  I  came  away." 

"You're  a  wise  lad,  Clap,  and  no  mistake,"  said 
Norman,  with  a  chuckling  laugh  in  his  throat,  which 
his  son  well  knew  was  an  expression  of  evil  omen; 
and  he  involuntarily  fixed  his  eyes  inquiringly  on  the 
bad  man.  "None  of  your  impudence,  you  rascal!" 
he  exclaimed,  shaking  his  fist  at  Clapham. 

"  Impudence !     I  did  not  speak." 

"Your  eyes   did,  though." 

"And  what,  did  they  say?"  asked  Clapham,  with 
a  dim  smile. 

"You're  a  fool,   boy,"    said  his   father;   and    then, 


106  A    GATHERING    STORM. 

suddenly  checking  his  irascible  and  irritated  temper, 
he  added,  quietly,  "I  am  the  wrong  side  of  the  fence 
this  time.  I  am  not  mad  with  you,  Clap.  Mam  has 
worn  me  out,  waiting  here  all  day  for  my  coat 
Come,  old  woman,  ain't  that  hole  sewed  up  yet  ? " 

Massy  tossed  the  coat  to  him,  saying,  "You  are 
the  onreasonablest  man  that  ever  a  poor  woman-critter 
was  slave  to ;  my  whole  life  goes  waiting  on  you." 

"That  is  what  you  are  made  for,  my  dear.  You, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  women-folks,  are  made  to 
serve  their  masters  ;  hey,  Clap  ?  " 

Clapham  thought  of  his  dear  friend  Harry's  mother, 
and  he  thought  some  women-folks  were  quite  equal 
to  their  masters.  Norman  put  on  his  coat,  re-filled 
his  pipe,  and  walked  off.  After  going  a  few  paces, 
he  turned  suddenly  around,  and  said,  in  a  voice  of 
unwonted  kindness,  "I  say,  Clap,  I  started  a  sight 
of  partridges  up  there  by  the  pond,  and  if  you  want 
to  look  after  them,  you  may  take  my  gun  and  some 
powder  and  shot ;  you'll  find  it  there  under  my  pil 
low.  But  mind  and  come  home  this  evening.  I 
shall  be  home  to  supper,  and  do  you  be  here ;  and, 


A    GATHERING    STORM.  107 


remember,  Clap,  you  must  do  me  a  good  turn 
I  want  it  Promise  me.  You're  a  boy  of  your  word, 
I'll  say  that  for  you.  I  never  catched  you  in  a  lie 
yet  Come,  promise." 

"Why,  father,  1  would  do  a'most  any  thing  in 
the  world  for  you,  if  you  would  speak  as  you  do 
now." 

"That's  you,  Clap.     You  promise?" 

"  Yes." 

"It's  a  bargain,  then;  and  mind  you're  home  to 
supper." 

"What  has  got  into  father?"  said  Clapham,  as 
Norman,  entering  the  wood-path,  disappeared. 

"  It's  no  good,"  said  Massy.  "  Sunshine  or  thun 
der-claps,  it's  all  the  same.  He's  been  clean  pos 
sessed,  ever  since  yesterday  morning,  about  a  rifle  on 
sale  down  to  the  Furnace.  He  says  he  never  saw 
the  like  on't.  He  was  talking  about  it  in  his  sleep 
last  night,  though  his  tongue  was  so  thick  I  could 
not  understand  more  than  one  word  in  ten.  He'd 
clean  drained  the  jug.  He  would  not  give  me  even 
one  spoonful,  to  take  the  bad  taste  out  of  my  mouth, 


»  A    GATHERING    STORM. 

No,  I  believe  —  I  do  believe,  Clap,  and  if  it  were 
my  last,  dying  word  I  would  say  so,  —  I  do  believe 
he'd  sell  his  soul  for  rum  and  a  rifle.  And  now, 
Clappy,"  she  continued,  in  a  whining  tone,  "if  you'll 
only  take  this  fourpence,  and  get  me  a  little  some 
thing  down  below." 

Clapham  looked  earnestly  in  his  mother's  face, 
and  shook  his  head.  "I  cannot,  mother  —  I  cannot," 
he  said;  "my  hands  have  been  on  that  good  child, 
—  God's  child  now,  —  and  I  cannot  touch  that  hateful 
jug,  or  any  thing  that  holds  that  dreadful  stuff.  I 
have  had  such  thoughts  these  last  two  days !  I  have 
been  with  good  folks,  and  I  want  to  be  fit  to  live 
among  them.  Don't  ask  me,  mother."  There  was  a 
quietness  in  Clapham's  tone,  a  dignity  and  deep  re 
solve  in  his  manner,  that  gave  to  the  boy  the  power 
of  manhood.  Massy  was,  for  the  moment,  awed ; 
and,  without  renewing  her  request,  she  permitted  him 
to  take  the  gun,  &c.,  and  go  up  the  mountain-path. 
Her  eye  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 
She  then  sat  down,  whimpering,  on  the  door-step 
"Well,"  she  said,  talking  to  herself,  "if  this  don't 


A    GATHERING    STORM.  109 

beat  me!  Norman  is  too  bad  to  live  "with,  and  Clappv 
is  too  good.  It  does  give  feelings,  though,  to  hear 
my  child  talk  that  way  —  Norman  Dunn's  boy  too! 
Where  did  he  larn  it  ?  He  has  never  been  justly 
one  of  us ;  but  now  he's  clean  changed.  I  felt  as 
underval'ed  as  if  a  judge  was  talking  to  me.  Well, 
well,  it  did  go  to  the  spot.  He  wants  to  do  right; 
he  wants  to  be  fit  to  live  with  good  folks;  he  must 
not  stay  with  us  then ! "  The  poor  woman  began  to 
cry  heartily.  She  was  a  mother;  and  ignorant,  ab 
ject,  drunken,  drabbish,  as  she  was,  sunken  to  the 
very  lowest  depths  of  sordid  wretchedness,  there  was 
yet  that  in  her  heart  which  answered  to  her  boy's 
heaven-born  desire  for  something  better  than  his  evi] 
home.  God's  image  is  never  wholly  effaced  from  the 
soui.  No  man  or  woman  is  irreclaimable. 

Twilight  was  breathing  its  sweet  peace  over  the 
earth ;  the  last  lingering  birds  were  singing  their 
good-night  notes  ;  and  every  woodland  thing  was 
giving  out  its  odor,  when  Clapham,  with  a  string  of 
game  over  his  shoulder,  came  down  the  Rhigi  road. 
This  game  was  converted  into  a  savory  stew,  and 


110  A    GATHERING    STORM. 

awaiting  Norman,  when,  late  in  the  evening",  he 
came  home  from  the  Furnace.  He  was  silent  and 
Bulky,  and  had  evidently  been  drinking.  There  was, 
in  those  days,  always  more  or  less  drinking  going 
on  among  the  loungers  about  the  Furnace  Tavern. 
The  supper  was  such  as  sportsmen  most  relish,  but 
no  word  of  praise  did  he  bestow  on  it;  and,  when 
Clapham  fished  up  from  the  mess  the  quarters  of  a 
large  grey  squirrel,  and  told  him  of  the  very  spot 
he  found  him,  and  how  he  treed  him,  Norman  gave 
no  sign  that  he  heard  him.  "You  don't  seem  sharp 
set,"  said  his  wife;  "I  guess  you've  been  feeding  at 
the  Furnace." 

"  Feeding  on  air,  then,  for  I  have  not  eaten  a 
mouthful  since  breakfast." 

"Then  dad  has  had  a  plenty  of  something  else, 
I  guess,"  said  Massy  to  Clapham,  with  a  wink  —  "  what 
takes  tne  wire-edge  off  from  hunger." 

"Guess  again,  mam.  I  have  not  drank  the  value 
ot  haif  a  pint  to-day." 

"Well,  then,  I  guess  you  had  bad  uck  about  the 
nne." 


A    GATHERING    STORM.  Ill 

•'That's  another  of  your  eternal  guesses  Fvo 
bargained  for  it,  and  am  to  have  possession  when 
I've  paid  ten  dollars." 

"  You  pay  ten  dollars !  That  will  be  when  the 
sky  falls,  and  we  catch  larks.  Hey,  Clappy  ? " 

Clapham  made  no  reply.  He  had  a  more  than 
usual  dread  of  a  storm,  and,  having  satisfied  his 
hunger,  he  lay  down  on  his  forlorn  little  bed,  and 
was  soon  in  a  sleep  that  many  a  king  would  have 
envied.  Does  the  hearty  boy,  or  the  temperate  la 
boring  man,  who  lies  down  to  sweet  sleep,  know 
what  a  blessing  is  "this  chief  nourisher  at  life's 
feast"?  Surely  labor  is  no  evil,  plain  fare  is  none, 
if  they  bring  with  them  a  good  which  no  money  and 
no  greatness  can  buy. 

Norman  did  not  sleep.  He  did  not  close  his  eyes. 
Poverty  must  have  the  attending  angel,  a  good  con 
science  ;  it  cannot  alone  bring  sleep.  Clapham  was 
dreaming  now  of  little  Lucy.  He  saw  again  the 
plaited  ruffle  of  her  night  dress,  around  her  white 
bosom,  the  rose-buds  lying  on  it,  and  a  smile  on 
those  pretty  lips.  Then  he  was  with  Harry,  on 


112  A    GATHERING    STORM. 

Rhigi,  dashing  through  the  brook,  or  watching  the 
game.  Suddenly,  it  seemed  to  him  that  Harry  grasped 
his  arm.  He  awoke.  It  was  not  Harry,  but  his  father, 
who  said,  "  Hush,  Clap ;  it's  me.  What  are  you  so 
scared  for?  Get  up.  Don't  wake  mam;  let  her  snoro 
her  soul  out." 

"Why!  what  is  the  matter,  father?" 

"  Nothing.  Do  as  I  bid  you.  Dress  you,  put  your 
cap  on,  and  come  out  with  me." 

"It  is  not  yet  day." 

"  No,  nor  won't  be  this  three  hours ;  mind  me, 
and  be  still  about  it." 

Clapham  augured  no  good  from  this  movement 
of  his  father.  He  knew  too  well  the  object  of  his 
night-pro wlings,  and  he  had  resolved  never  again  to  be 
the  companion  of  them.  "I  am  sleepy,  father,"  he 
said;  "I  was  awake  all  last  night,  and  I  don't  want 
to  get  up." 

"  Remember  our  bargain,"  replied  his  father.  "  Re 
member  your  promise.  You're  bound.  Come,  come 
along." 

Clapham     rose,     dressed,     and     followed     Norman. 


A    GATHERING    STORM.  113 

After  going  a  little  way  towards  the  village,  lie 
made  a  dead  stop,  and  said,  "Now,  father,  I'll  tell 
you  what  it  is.  I  have  been  thinking  a  good  deal 
lately,  and  I  have  determined  to  make  an  end  of 
this  night-work.  I'm  tired  on  it.  I  hate  it."  His 
father  seized  him  by  the  collar;  but  Clapham,  un 
daunted,  added,  "I  won't  do  it." 

Norman  stood  for  a  moment,  glaring  fiercely  at 
the  boy,  his  hand  still  grasping  his  collar.  Clapham 
did  not  flinch ;  he  stood  as  firmly  braced  as  if  he  were 
a  match  for  the  tall,  strong  man;  and  the  spirit  of 
the  boy,  even  in  that  slight  and  powerless  frame, 
awed,  for  a  moment,  the  bad  man. 

The  moon  was  in  her  second  quarter.  There 
was  a  strong  south  wind,  and  clouds  scudding  over 
the  sky.  At  this  moment  they  rolled  off  the  moon, 
and  it  .shone  brightly  in  Clapham's  face.  It  was 
deadly  pale,  but  calm  and  determined. 

Norman  hesitated ;  his  eye  fell.  A  spirit  good  and 
strong,  a  spirit  of  truth,  was  looking  out  of  the  boy's 
clear  eye. 

Norman's   tone   changed.      "Now,    Clap,"    he   said, 
10  • 


114  A    GATHERING    STORM. 

what  for  are  you  making  this  fuss  ?  I  have  only  told 
you  to  come  along  with  me.  One  person  may  lead  a 
horse  to  the  water,  you  know,  but  it  takes  two  to  make 
him  drink.  Keep  quiet,  can't  you?  till  I  ask  you  to 
do  something  more  than  walk  down  to  the  Furnace 
with  me.  I'm  after  that  rifle,  and  if  I  ain't  down 
there  by  daylight,  I  lose  it.  There's  one  of  them 
New  York  sparks  that's  up  here  a  gunning.  He's 
out  afore  the  sun  is  up.  Bill  Haskins  says  he  told 
him  about  the  rifle,  and  he  said  he'd  go  down  and  see 
it  this  morning  early,  and  I  mean  to  be  ahead  on  him." 
"O,  if  that's  all,  father!"  said  Clapham,  cheer 
fully.  "  You've  come  to  your  milk,  have  you  ?  Make 
tracks  a  little  faster,  then,  will  you?"  On  they 
went.  The  path  they  were  in  passed  Davis  s  house 
at  the  distance  of  a  few  rods.  When  at  tie  point 
nearest  to  it,  another  path  diverged  from  it,  and  led 
directly  to  Davis's  door-step.  Into  this  path  Norman 
turned,  and  walked  on  rapidly  ahead  of  Clapham  They 
were  within  a  few  yards  of  the  house  when  Clap- 
ham's  heart  sank.  He  caught  his  father  by  tho  sleeve, 
and,  said  "Father,  what  are  you  coming  here  for?" 


A    GATHERING    STORM.  115 

"  Hush !  "  said  Norman,  in  a  low  tone,  that  went 
like  a  sharp  whistle  through  the  boy's  head.  And 
he  half  carried,  half  dragged  Clapham  along,  till  they 
stood  at  the  only  window  of  that  consecrated  bed 
room,  at  the  very  spot  where  Clapham  had  lain  on  the 
ground  the  preceding  night.  It  was  a  small  sliding 
window,  and  not  secured  by  any  fastening  whatever. 
"  In  there,  in  a  bureau  drawer,  —  you  know  just  where," 
whispered  Norman,  "is  a  purse.  I  must  have  it,  and 
you  must  get  it.  No  holding  back  now."  He  softly 
drew  the  window  open.  "Come,  snake  in,  and  done 
with  it." 

"I'll  die  first,"  answered  Clapham. 

"  No ! "  muttered  Norman,  with  a  horrid  oath. 
"  You  do  it,  or  Harry  Davis  dies."  He  drew  a  knife 
from  beneath  his  coat,  and,  Clapham  still  immovable, 
he  added,  "I  swear  I'll  kill  him  with  this  knife  if 
you  don't  do  as  I  bid  you." 

"  Father !  father !  "  said  Clapham,  laying  both  hands 
on  his  father's  aisn. 

"I  swear  I  will,"  repeated  Norman.  "I  will,  if 
the  business  is  not  done  as  I  bid  you.  If  you  speak 


116  A    GATHERING    STORM. 

a  loud  word,  or  make  a  breath  of  noise  to  wake  him,  1 
will  break  open  the  door,  and  do  it  for  him  and 
the  gal  too.  I  had  as  lief  as  stick  a  pig,  and  then 
burn  the  house  down;  and  who's  the  wiser?  I  have 
determined  on't  aforehand.  Will  you  mind  me  now  ? " 

Clapham  knew  his  father's  savage  temper,  his  iron 
will.  He  fully  believed  he  would  do  as  he  threat 
ened;  and  the  image  of  Harry  and  of  Annie  mur 
dered —  murdered  by  his  father's  hand  —  was  before 
him.  He  listened  —  he  heard  no  human  sound.  He 
looked  around  on  every  side ;  there  was  no  human 
creature  stirring — no  help.  "Will  you  do  it?  Speak," 
said  Norman,  pointing  his  knife  to  the  door. 

Clapham,  forced  to  the  decision,  said,  "I  will;" 
and  he  mounted  to  the  window.  The  opening  was 
but  just  large  enough  to  admit  his  body.  As  he 
slid  down  into  the  room,  his  foot  touched  a  foot 
stool  that  had  been  left  standing  there,  and,  turning 
over  on  the  bare  floor,  it  made  a  loud  noise.  Nor 
man's  head  was  at  the  open  window.  "  Damnation ! " 
fcji 

he  muttered  in  a  suppressed  voice. 

"I  did  not  mean  it,"  whispered  Clapham,  who  was 


A    GATHERING    STORM.  117 

now  fully  persuaded  that  his  friends'  safety  depended 
on  his  executing  well  his  father's  purpose.  He  heard 
a  movement  in  the  next  room.  The  sleepers  were 
awakened.  He  stood  stock  still,  and  heard  Annie 
ask,  "  What  is  that  noise,  Harry  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  Shall  I  jump  up  and  see  ?  "  re- 
piied  Harry. 

"  Shall  I  give  him  notice,  or  what  shall  I  do  ? " 
thought  Clapham,  when  Annie  again  spoke,  saying, 
"No,  don't  get  up,  Harry.  It's  no  matter.  It's  only 
Tom." 

"  Yes.  It  must  be.  The  window  was  open  when 
little  Lucy  was  lying  there,  and  we  all  forgot  to  shut 
it;  so  puss  has  jumped  in." 

"You  think   it  certainly  is  the  cat,  Harry?" 

"  Yes,  Annie ;  but,  cat  or  no  cat,  there's  nothing  to 
hurt  us;  so  go  to  sleep,  Annie." 

"  I  will ;  but  when  I  am  asleep,  don't  you  get  up 
and  leave  me,  Harry."  She  spoke  drowsily ;  and  he 
answered,  "Never  fear.  I  shall  be  asleep  myself." 

Cold  chills  were  running  over  Clapham.  Those 
dear,  fami  iar  voices ;  the  danger  so  near  to  them ; 


118  A    GATHERING   STORM. 

the  blessed  memory  of  that  morning  when  he  had 
stood  on  that  very  spot,  and  looked  on  little  Lucy  for 
the  last  time,  —  altogether  paralyzed  him,  till  his  father, 
in  a  voice,  though  not  ahove  a  whisper,  expressing 
rage  and  impatience,  said,  "  Do  it."  Clapham  drew 
open  the  drawer  in  which  he  knew  all  Mrs.  Davis's 
little  store  was  deposited,  took  out  the  purse,  threw 
it  to  his  father,  reclosed  the  drawer,  and  withdrew 
through  the  window.  Harry  was  listening.  The  par 
tition  was  so  thin  that  he  could  scarcely  persuade 
himself  that  he  did  not  hear  a  drawer  open  and  shut. 
He  thought  of  his  mother's  money,  and  was  impul 
sively  springing  up,  when  Annie,  aroused  too,  caught 
him  by  the  arm,  saying,  "  Stop  a  minute."  Before  the 
minute  passed,  all  was  again  quiet,  and  Norman  and 
Clapham  were  out  of  hearing,  and,  in  a  little  while, 
Harry  and  Annie  were  again  asleep.  Norman  silently 
strode  homeward.  Clapham  followed,  his  heart  as 
heavy  as  lead.  When  they  were  within  a  few  paces 
of  their  own  door,  Norman  stopped,  and  turning  short 
round  upon  Clapham,  he  said,  "  I'll  tell  you  the  case, 
Clap.  You've  got  some  new  notions  into  you,  and  it's 


A    GATHERING    STORM.  119 

all  nonsense.  There's  nobody  cares  for  us,  and  why 
should  we  care  for  any  body  ?  I  ask  no  favors,  and 
I'll  grant  none.  As  we  brew,  so  we  must  bake. 
As  we've  begun,  so  we  must  end.  Nobody  is  friends 
to  us,  and  we'll  be  friends  to  nobody." 

"I  have  friends,"  said  Clapham,  "and  I'll  be  true 
to  them  ;  and  if  I  live  another  day " 

"  Hush  up,  square ! "  interrupted  his  father,  "  and 
hear  me  out;  as  sure  as  you  blab,  I'll  be  the  death 
of  you." 

"  I  don't  care  a  straw,"  answered  Clapham ;  "  I 
wish  I  were  dead,  and  under  ground,  now;  and,  if 
killing  me  is  the  worst  you  can  do,  you  are  wel 
come.  Now,  hear  me.  I  swear,  —  not  as  you  do, 
but  as  the  folks  swear  in  court,  —  I  swear,  and  hold 
up  my  hand  to  it,  so  help  me  God,  come  what  come 
may,  I'll  tell  the  truth." 

"  You  will,  will  you  ? "  answered  Norman,  his  voice 
trembling  with  rage ;  "  then  we'll  see  which  will  be 
master.  I'll  swear  —  and  hold  my  hand  up  to  it,  too 
—  if  you  let  on,  by  word  or  sign,  of  what  we've 
done  to-night,  I'll  burn  down  Davis's  house  in  the 


120 


A    GATHERING    STORM. 


dead  of  night,  and  all  the  folks  in  it;  I  will,  so 

help  me ."  The  name  he  would  have  impiously 

invoked  stuck  in  his  throat.  "Are  you  afeard  of 
me  now  ? ''  he  added. 

"I  am!  I  am!"  replied  Clapham ;  and  the  poor 
boy  threw  himself  on  the  ground,  and  cried  with  a 
sense  of  utter  helplessness  and  misery.  Norman 
seized  him,  raised  him  to  his  feet,  and  dragged  him 
onward  to  their  hut.  "Be  still,"  he  said;  "shut  up; 
go  to  bed,  and  go  to  sleep.  If  you  mind  me,  all 
is  right."  Clapham  stumbled  in,  and  on  to  his  straw 
bed;  and,  burying  his  face  in  it,  he  sobbed  till, 
nature  overpowered,  he  fell  asleep. 

Norman  did  not  sleep.  His  mind  was  busy  with 
plans  to  evade  justice  and  secure  his  ill-gotten  gains. 
After  revolving  various  plans,  he  determined  that  he 
would  be  early  at  the  furnace,  buy  the  rifle,  "  get 
over  the  line,"  and  go  roaming.  Bad  as  he  was, 
Clapham  had  made  some  impression  on  him  ;  and 
he  was  willing,  if  he  could  provide  for  his  own 
safety,  to  bear  the  imputation  of  the  theft  and  save 
Clapham.  As  his  passion  subsided,  there  rose  a 


A    GATHERING    STORM. 

sense  of  his  boy's  courage  and  fidelity.  "I  never 
feared  nothing,"  thought  Norman ;  "  but,  as  he  stood 
there  with  his  hand  raised,  he  made  my  heart  beat. 
All  the  witnesses  on  earth,  swearing  agrin  me  in 
court,  could  lot  no  it.15 


11 


122  k   TOTAL   ECLIPSE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A   TOTAL   ECLIPSE. 

"'J  he  sheriff  and  the  watch  are  at  the  door.     They    tte  come  to 
the  house.    Shall   I  let  them  in  ?  » 


MRS.  DAVIS  and  her  husband  returned  earlier 
than  they  were  expected  on  the  following1 
:aorning.  Deputy  Sheriff  Parley,  from  whom  she  had 
bred  her  conveyance,  had  told  her  that  he  was 
i  bliged  to  take  some  debtors  to  the  county  jail  on 
hat  day,  and  he  should  be  glad  to  have  his  wagon 
*s  early  as  she  could  return.  Mrs.  Davis  was  glad 
o  have  this  plea  with  her  husband,  who  was  habit- 
lally  a  late  sleeper.  "It  was  natural  to  the  Da- 
rises,"  he  said.  She  was  saddened  by  her  recent 
loss,  and  desired  to  relieve  her  mind  bv  plunging 
into  her  usual  occupations.  She  roused  Davis  before 
the  day  dawned ;  and,  just  as  the  sun  arose,  she 
stopped  at  the  sheriff's  gate  to  inform  him  of  her 
return.  He  was  a  bustling,  prompt  man;  and,  being 


A    TOTAL    ECLIPSE.  123 

ready  to  proceed  to  Canaan,  whence  he  was  to  take 
his  prisoners,  he  jumped  into  the  wagon,  intending  to 
take  possession  of  it  at  Davis's  door.  When  they 
arrived  there,  Mrs.  Davis  asked  the  sheriff  to  wait 
till  she  could  bring  the  money  from  the  house  to 
pay  him  for  the  "  team."  The  children  were  still 
asleep.  She  sighed  heavily  as  she  passed  them, 
thinking  that  she  should  never  again  see  little  Lucy 
lying  by  them,  and  proceeded  into  the  bed-room. 
"I  am  sure  I  did  not  leave  that  window  wide  open," 
thought  the  careful  mother,  as  the  damp,  morning 
breeze  blew  on  her.  She  opened  the  drawer,  and  was 
struck  with  its  confusion.  The  things  were  up 
turned,  and  the  purse  not  in  its  place.  She  uttered 
an  exclamation,  and  involuntarily  called  to  Harry. 
He  sprang  out  of  bed,  wrapped  a  sheet  round  him, 
ar.d  saying,  "Dear,  dear  mother,  are  you  here?"  he 
was  in  a  moment  at  her  side.  Annie  followed 
The  loss  was  communicated,  and  Harry  at  once  re 
curred  to  what  had  happened  in  the  night,  and 
related  it.  "  There  had  been  a  thief  in  the  house : 
who  could  it  be?"  Mrs.  Davis  called  in  the  sheriff, 


124  A    TOTAL    ECLIPSE. 

and  he,  with  official  coolness,  began  an  investigation. 
He  looked  outside  the  window  for  tracks.  The  ground 
was  hard  trcdden  there,  and  showed  none.  "The 
window,"  he  remarked,  "  would  scarcely  admit  a 
man ; "  but,  on  measuring  it,  he  concluded .  that  one 
narrow  in  the  shoulders  might  get  in.  But  who 
could  it  be  ?  No  depredation  of  the  sort  had  ever 
been  committed  in  Salisbury ;  and,  though  there  was 
scarcely  a  house  in  the  place  with  a  fastening  on 
its  doors,  none  had  been  entered.  There  had  been 
pilfering  of  meat,  hung  in  outer  sheds  and  hen 
roosts,  but  they  had  all  been  traced  to  Norman  Dunn, 
and  he  could  not  get  half  his  breadth  into  that  win 
dow.  "  To  be  sure,"  added  the  sheriff,  "  there's  his 
boy,  Clapham." 

"Clapham!"   interrupted   Harry,  "it  is   not  he!" 

"  No,  no !  indeed  it  is  not ! "  echoed  Mrs.  Davis 
and  Annie. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it  is,"  said  Sheriff  Parley  ; 
"the  boy  is  a  changed  boy  regular  and  quiet." 

While  he  spoke,  the  sheriff  was  shuffling  his  foot 
backward  and  forward  :  in  doing  so,  he  hit  it  against 


A    TOTAL    ECLIPSE.  125 

the  overset  footstool,  and  removed  it.  Harry  natu 
rally  cast  his  eye  down,  and  just  peeping  from  beneath 
it,  he  saw  a  pocket-handkerchief.  He  knew  it  instantly. 
It  was  the  one  Annie  had  given  to  Clapham.  The 
blood  rushed  up  to  the  very  roots  of  his  hair.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  snatch  and  conceal  it ;  but,  before 
he  could  make  a  movement,  or  think  another  thought, 
the  sheriff,  who  had  seen  his  change  of  color,  and 
followed  the  direction  of  his  eye,  caught  it  up,  and 
shook  it  out,  saying,  "What  is  this?  Here's  a  clew, 
may  be.  '  C.  D.'  —  Clapham  Dunn  !  The  secret  is 
out!" 

Mrs.  Davis  sat  down,  trembling.  Annie  turned 
pale,  and  Davis  said,  "  Yes  ;  out,  fully ! " 

"  O,  no,  father !  "  said  Harry ;  "  you  don't  know 
Clapham.  You  mistake,  sir,"  addressing  the  sheriff. 
"Mother,  Clapham  was  here  all  those  two  last  days: 
could  he  not  have  dropped  it  then?" 

Mrs.  Davis  made  no  reply.  A  conviction  that 
Clapham  was  the  guilty  one,  was  stealing  over  her. 
and  her  heart  sank  within  her.  She  recalled  his 
standing  by  her  when  she  took  out  the  money  to 


126  A    TOTAL    ECLIPSE. 

send  for  little  Lucy's  medicine.  She  said  nothing  till 
the  sheriff  asked,  "  What  was  the  situation  of  the  room 
when  you  left  it,  Mrs.  Davis  ?  Was  it  cleared  up  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Did  you  put  it  to  rights  yourself  ?  Don't  be 
scared.  You  are  not  on  oath." 

"  That  makes  no  difference.  I  must  speak  the 
truth,  though  the  poor  boy  should  seem  condemned  by 
it.  I  did  put  the  room  in  order  before  I  went  away." 

"Might  not  the  footstool  have  been  turned  over, 
and  you  not  seen  it?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  know  it  might ! "  exclaimed  Harry. 
Mrs.  Davis  shook  her  head.  "Do  you  remember  any 
thing  distinctly  about  the  footstool?"  pursued  the 
sheriff. 

"Yes.  It's  little  Lucy's.  She  always  sat  on  it; 
and  for  fear  something  might  happen  to  it,  I  came 
back  after  I  went  out  to  get  into  the  wagon,  and  brought 
it  in  from  the  kitchen,  and  placed  it  under  the  win 
dow,  where  the  table  had  stood  with  the  coffin  on  it" 

"  There  is  no  need  of  further  investigation,  sheriff," 
interposed  Davii.  "I  don't  wish  my  family  to  shield 


A    TOTAL    ECLIFSE.  127 

that  bad  boy  any  more.  I  always  mistrusted  him. 
You  know,  mother,  I  never  approved  of  Harry  keeping 
company  with  him.  What's  the  next  step,  sheriff?" 
The  sheriff,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  said  that 
he  thought  they  had  best  jump  into  the  wagon  at  once, 
and  proceed  to  Norman's ;  and  Davis  suggested  that, 
as  they  must  call  at  Squire  Baner's  on  their  way,  for 
a  search  warrant,  it  would  be  best  to  get  his  boys 
to  go  up  with  them,  as  Norman  was  an  ugly  cus 
tomer  when  he  was  mad.  The  prudent  sheriff  assented 
to  the  propriety  of  this  reinforcement,  and  they  were 
proceeding,  when  Harry  said,  "You  can  take  but  one 
of  the  Baners,  for  I  must  go.  I  must  hear  the  truth 
from  Clapham." 

"  The  truth  from  Clapham ! "  echoed  Davis  ;  "  that's 
a  good  one !  —  the  truth  from  the  thief." 

"I  must  go,  sir,"  replied  Harry,  with  a  calm  de- 
3ision,  that  rather  staggered  his  father;  and  he  said, 
winking  at  the  same  time  slyly  at  Sheriff  Parley, 
"Well,  it's  the  sheriff's  wagon.  What  say  you,  Mr. 
Sheriff?" 

"I  say  that  I  can't  take  a  supernumerary.      I  shall 


128  A    TOTAL    ECLIPSE. 

take  but  one  of  the  Baners.  We  must  drive  full 
speed,  or  the  bird  will  have  flown.  Don't  put  yom 
finger  in  the  pie,  Harry  Davis.  It's  a  bad  mess,  — 
depend  on't." 

Harry  begged,  he  entreated ;  but  the  sheriff  was 
resolute,  and  drove  away  at  full  speed.  He  was  much 
edified  on  the  way  by  sundry  remarks  of  Davis  on  the 
impossibility  of  women  taking  care  of  money  after 
they  had  earned  it,  and  on  the  obvious  advantage  of 
their  at  once  paying  it  over  to  their  husbands ! 

We  return  to  Norman's  hut.  He  had  awakened 
from  a  short  sleep,  had  watched  in  the  day,  and  was 
awaiting  its  advance  impatiently.  He  feared  to  excite 
suspicion  if  he  should  appear  at  the  Furnace  at  an 
unusually  early  hour,  and  he  counted  the  minutes  till 
he  could  go,  secure  the  rifle,  and  be  off.  Then  he 
cared  not  how  much  he  was  suspected  or  accused ; 
but,  above  all  things,  he  dreaded  confinement  in  a  jail. 
It  was  as  intolerable  to  him  as  to  a  Pawnee. 

Clapham  was  sleeping  profoundly.  It  will  be  re~ 
membered  that  the  night  preceding  the  theft  he  had  lain 
outside  little  Lucy's  window.  It  had  been  one  lo.-»g 


A    TOTAL    ECLIPSE.  129 

vigil,  filled  with  new  thoughts,  pure  affections,  and 
right  purposes.  How  different  had  been  the  last  night ! 
Sad,  but  not  to  the  poor  boy  guilty.  He  had  resolved 
that  as  soon  as  morning  came,  and  his  father  had  gone, 
he  would  go  to  the  Davises,  and  make  a  full  disclosure, 
come  what  come  would ;  and,  feeling  relieved  by  this 
determination,  he  sank  into  a  deep  sleep. 

The  sheriff  was  obliged  to  leave  the  wagon  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  Norman  Dunn's,  and  ascend  the  moun 
tain  with  his  companions  by  a  foot-path.  Norman 
heard  their  footsteps,  and  was  instantly  aware  of  the 
threatened  danger.  He  had  but  one  moment  to  con 
sider,  and  he  obeyed  the  first  suggestion  of  his  evil 
mind.  He  took  the  purse  from  under  his  pillow,  and 
thrust  it  through  a  hole  of  Clapham's  ticking,  amidst 
the  straw,  and  returned  to  his  bed,  where  he  affected 
to  be  awakened  from  sound  sleep.  Clapham  was 
awakened  too.  He  recognized  the  sheriff.  He  started 
at  the  sight  of  Davis.  He  well  knew  the  quest  they 
must  be  on,  and  he  drew  the  ragged  coverlet  over 
his  head,  and  lay  still. 

Norman,  having   demanded,  with   the   air  of  lord  of 


.30  A    TOTAL    ECLIPSE. 

the  castle,  their  errand,  and  told  them,  with  an  imcon 
cerned  tone,  to  "proceed,"  kept  up  an  under- iurrent 
of  muttering.  '  He  thought  people  that  did  not  meddle 
nor  make  in  the  village  might  be  left  in  quiet  on 
the  mountain.  Davis's  money !  Davis's  was  the  last 
house  in  the  county  he  should  go  to  to  look  for  money. 
Where  did  Tom  Davis  get  it?  Selling  Self-churning 
Churns  !  or  Independent  Washing  Machines  !  He  had 
not  been  to  Tom  Davis's  this  ten  years. 

"  But  your  boy  has,"  said  Davis,  "  and  we'll  trouble 
him  to  get  up;"  hoping  to  quiet  the  slurs  which  he  felt 
diverted  his  companions. 

"  Come,  my  lad,"  he  said,  shaking  Clapham ;  "  up 
with  you.  You  are  smart  enough  \vnen  you  are 
crawling  into  people's  windows,  at  the  dead  of  night. 
Clapham  uncovered  his  pale  face,  rose,  and  put  on  his 
clothes.  He  looked  miserable,  but  any  tiling  but 
guilty ;  and  every  one  instinctively  felt  what  a  contrast 
he  was  to  the  loathsome  scene  about  him  and  above 
ill  to  his  father,  whose  eyes  were  blood-shot,  his  face 
bloated,  and  black  with  a  beard  of  a  month's  growth,  and 
his  nose,  like  Bardolph's,  "  an  everlasting  bonfire  light. 


A    TOTAL    ECLIPSE.  131 

"  We  must  make  a  thorough  search  here,"  said  the 
sheriff,  "for  here,  as  the  children  say,  we  are  getting 
hot."  He  shook  out  the  bed-clothes,  and,  saying  it 
would  not  hurt  the  musty  straw  to  give  it  an  airing, 
he  took  the  bed  to  the  door,  tore  it  open,  and  shook 
it  out  The  purse  rung,  as  it  fell  heavily  on  the 
door-step.  "  Pretty  well  done,  for  a  beginner ! "  he 
said,  picking  up  the  purse,  and  then  holding  it  up. 
"  There's  one  witness  against  you,  my  lad ; "  and  then, 
drawing  out  from  his  pocket  Clapham's  handkerchief, 
"  And  here's  another  !  "  he  added.  "  Truly,  you  are  a 
chip  of  the  old  block;  though  he  don't  look  like  it, 
does  he  ? "  he  added,  in  a  lowered  voice,  appealing  to 
the  standers-by.  There  was  compassion  in  his  voice, 
—  a  compassion  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel.  Clap- 
ham's  cheeks  and  lips  were  bloodless,  but  his  eye 
looked  steadily  up.  "Give  me  that  handkerchief,"  he 
said,  faintly.  It  was  given  to .  him.  It  had  been 
steeped  with  tears  of  sympathy  and  love  —  tears  for 
little  Lucy.  Bitter  tears  now  drenched  it  as  he  cov 
ered  his  face,  staggered  against  the  wall,  and  said,  in 
a  voice  but  just  audible,  "  Ruined,  ruined ! " 


132  A    TOTAL    ECLIPSE. 

Massy  now  crawled  out  of  her  lair,  and  began 
crying  aloud.  "  Why,  Clapham  !  Clapham !  "  she  said, 
"I  never  would  have  thought  it  of  you.  Why,  sheriff, 
though  he  does  belong  to  us,  there  never  was  an 
honester  boy.  Clappy  never  stole  in  his  life,  but 
when  he  made  him.  'Twas  only  two  days  ago  he  re 
fused  to  spend  a  shilling  for  me,  just  'cause  I  took  it 
out  of  his  pocket."  This  declaration  made  no  impres 
sion  at  the  time,  but  it  was  afterwards  remembered  in 
Clapham's  favor.  "  Don't,"  she  continued,  "  don't,  Mr. 
Sheriff,  snap  him  up.  You've  got  the  money;  what 
more  do  you  want  ?  He's  young  to  shut  up  in  a  jail. 
Them  that's  put  there  always  comes  out  worse  than 
they  go  in.  Norman  always  did." 

"Keep  your  breath  to  cool  your  porridge,  old 
woman,"  said  Norman.  "  Did  you  ever  see  a-  cat  let  a 
mouse  go?  When  you  see  that,  you'll  see  a  sheriff 
open  his  clutch.  Come,  clear  out;  I  don't  want  any 
more  powwowing  here." 

The  sheriff  ordered  Massy  to  tie  up  all  the  boy's 
clothes,  as  it  was  not  likely  he  would  return  very  soon. 
Clapham  inquired  whither  he  was  to  be  conveyed. 


A    i'OTAL    KCLIPSE.  133 

The  sheriff  condescended  to  inform  him  that  he  wag 
going  to  transport  some  debtors  from  Canaan  to  the 
prison  at  L  -  ,  and  he  should  take  him  there  for  com 
mitment.  "Can't  I  see  Harry  Davis  before  I  go?" 
asked  Clapham,  beseechingly. 

"I  will  take  upon  me  to  answer  that  question," 
answered  Davis,  with  an  air  of  great  authority.  "You 
cannot.  You  have  had  a  little  too  much  of  seeing 
Harry  Davis." 

"  Does  Harry  believe  I  stole  the  purse  ?  " 

"To  be  sure  he  does." 

"  How  can  he  ?  He  does  not  know  the  purse  is 
found." 

"But  he  heard  you  in  the  night;  he  found  the 
window  open;  he  saw  the  handkerchief;  and  lie  knows 


Clapham  said  not  another  word.      It  was  to  him  a* 
if  there  were  no  more  light  in  the  world. 


J34  A    CHANGE    OF    SCENE. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

A   CHANGE    OF    SCENE. 

»«  Man  proposes.    God  disposes." 

THE  events  we  have  related  occurred  in  the  month 
of  September.  They  had  given  considerable  no 
toriety  to  the  Davises,  and  brought  them  into  the  eye 
of  the  little  public  of  Salisbury.  Mrs.  Davis  was  too 
well  known,  and  too  much  respected  there,  to  be  con 
demned  for  having  permitted  an  intercourse  between 
her  children  and  Clapham  Dunn.  The  common  re 
marks  were,  that  "  her  goodness  was  imposed  on ; "  that 
"  she  never  would  be!  eve  evil  of  any  body ; "  tnat  "  it 
was  well  for  ner  that  her  son  Harry  was  such  an  on- 
common  boy  ; "  that  "  he  was  one  of  the  few  in  the  world 
who  could  touch  pitch  and  not  be  defiled."  Poor  Clap- 
ham  !  No  thought  of  pity  or  charity  wandered  towards 
him,  except  (an  honorable  exception  for  him)  from  the 


A    CHANGE    OF    SCENE.  135 

bosoms  of  that  little  family  who  best  knew  him.  Many  a 
prayer  arose  from  Mrs.  Davis's  secret  chamber  that  "  the 
lost  might  be  found;"  and  Harry  and  Annie  had  many 
a  talk  together  of  a  hundred  instances  of  Clapham's  hon 
esty,  and  a  thousand  of  his  good-heartedness,  and  they 
generally  concluded  with  expressing  a  hope  that  there 
was  some  unfathomable  secret  that  would  some  day  ex 
plain  away  the  proofs,  they  could  not  openly  controvert, 
of  Clapham's  guilt,  and  a  conviction  that  he  was  not,  at 
any  rate,  so  guilty  as  he  seemed.  If  only  Mr.  Lyman 
had  been  in  town,  he  might  have  done  something ;  he 
was  always  a  good  friend  to  Clapham ;  he  would  at  least 
have  given  him  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  a  friend. 
That  this  was  due  to  him,  Harry  so  vehemently  insisted, 
that  he  persuaded  his  father,  who  was  going  through 

L ,  on  his   way  to   Washington,    to   take   a   letter 

from  him  to  Clapham.  In  this  letter  he  expressed, 
most  affectionately,  his  grief  for  what  had  happened; 
his  mother's,  and  Annie's.  He  said  they  were  not 
willing  to  believe  any  thing  against  him,  and  that  what 
other  people  called  proofs,  they  only  called  mysterious, 
unexplained  circumstances.  "I  have  believed  in  you, 


136  A    CHANGE    OF    SCENE. 

Clapham,"  he  said.  "I  yet  hope.  Write  the  truth  to 
me.  You  cannot  write  yourself.  If  there  is  no  one 
in  the  jail  who  will  write  for  you,  send  for  the  minis 
ter  of  L .  I  dare  say  he  is  a  good  man,  —  minis 
ters  almost  always  are,  —  and  he  will  write  for  you." 

Had  poor  Clapham  received  this  letter,  what  a 
healing  balm  it  would  have  been  to  his  wounded  spirit ! 
What  a  motive  it  would  have  given  for  effort  and  per 
severance  !  But  he  was  destined  never  to  see  it. 
Davis,  whose  improvidence  and  carelessness  were  the 
bane  of  all  dependence  on  him,  put  Harry's  letter  where 
he  usuallv  carried  his  business  papers,  —  in  the  crown  of 
his  hat,  —  and  lost  it.  Day  after  day,  Harry  hoped  and 
sighed  for  an  answer,  but  no  answer  came  ;  and,  when 
Davis  returned  from  Washington,  not  liking  to  confess 
he  had  lost  the  letter,  he  asked  Harry,  carelessly,  if 
he  had  received  an  answer  from  Clapham ;  and,  on 
Harry  replying,  "  No,"  he  merely  said,  "  I  thought  not ! " 
His  morality  was  as  slipshod  as  his  other  qualities. 

The  country  "  season "  was  now  closing,  and  Mrs. 
Dawson  and  the  New  York  party  who  had  delayed 
their  return  to  the  city  to  enjoy  October  in  the  country 


A    CHANGE    OF    SCENE.  137 

were  packing  for  their  departure.  Mrs.  Dawson  had 
taken  a  great  liking  to  Harry  Davis.  She  had  been 
struck  with  his  intelligence,  his  good  manners,  and  his 
manliness.  She  found  he  had  profited  by  a  very  good 
common  school  education ;  that  he  had  taken  ad 
vantage  of  the  opportunities  of  reading,  afforded  by 
the  diffusion  of  cheap  publications  ;  that  he  had  wisely 
taken  advice  of  his  cultivated  friend,  Mr.  Lyman, 
and,  rejecting  trash,  read  only  books  that  are  books. 

One  of  the  greatest  men  of  letters  England  has 
produced  —  Gibbon — declares  that  his  love  of  reading 
was  more  to*  him  than  all  the  rest  of  his  education. 
Harry  Davis  did  not  expect  to  be  a  man  of  letters. 
He  was  not  an  ambitious  boy  ;  but  he  was  early 
taught  that,  in  whatever  condition  he  might  find  him 
self,  a  well-stored  mind  would  be  imperishable  riches, 
contribute  ig  to  his  respectability  and  happiness. 

Mrs.  Dawson  kindly  called  on  Mrs.  Davis  soon 
after  little  Lucy's  burial ;  and,  introducing  what  she 
rightly  thought  a  most  consolatory  topic,  she  said, 
"Your  son  Harry  is  a  remarkable  boy,  Mrs.  Davis." 

"He  is  a  good  child,  ma'am." 
12 


138  A   CHANGE    OF    SCENE. 

"  That  he  is.  I  have  been  much  struck  with  seeing 
him  so  cheerfully  fetch  and  carry  our  clothes  to  your 
wash.  Some  boys  would  have  let  their  mothers  do  it; 
but  your  son  seems  to  know  that  the  true  honor  lies 
in  performing  the  service  for  his  mother." 

"  He  has  always  taken  pleasure  in  serving  me,"  said 
Mrs.  Davis,  with  a  smile  of  sweet  satisfaction. 

"Well,  he  will  be  rewarded,  Mrs.  Davis.  He  may 
be  president  of  the  United  States,  yet." 

"I  hope  not" 

"Hope  not?" 

"I  mean,  Mrs.  Dawson,  that  I  don't  wish  my  son 
to  be  ambitious ;  that  I  think  it  is  the  fault  and  folly 
of  our  people  to  be  all  striving  for  something  beyond 
them.  There  is  so  much  said  now-a-days  about  people 
'  going  ahead,'  that  they  are  all  pushing  forward  —  look 
ing  beyond  —  grasping  at  something  they  cannot  quite 
reach,  instead  of  being  contented  with  what  they  have 
— building  castles  in  the  air,  instead  of  raising  a  com 
fortable  dwelling  on  solid  ground.  No,  Mrs.  Dawson, 
I  am  sincere  when  I  say  that  my  highest  ambition  is 
to  see  my  son  an  intelligent  farmer  or  mechanic,  a 


A   CHANGE    OF    SCENE.  139 

good  member  of  society,  but  not  a  doctor  or  lawyer, 
and,  above  all  things,  not  by  trade  a  politician." 

"  I  admire  your  moderation,  Mrs.  Davis,  but  I  con- 
fees  I  look  for  something  a  little  better  for  Harry." 

Mrs.  Dawson  had  conceived  certain  plans  for 
Harry.  She  was  a  woman  of  unbounded  sympathy, 
and  the  most  diffusive  kindness ;  but,  we  must  con 
fess,  with  rather  more  zeal  than  judgment. 

"Your  ideas  are  excellent,  Mrs.  Davis,"  she  re 
sumed  ;  "  but  Harry  is  such  an  uncommon  boy  that 
we  may  expect  something  a  little  out  of  the  common 
way  for  him.  Why,  Mr.  Lyman  says  he  draws  very 
nearly  as  well  as  he  does.  Who  knows  but  he  might 
make  a  great  painter?" 

"O  Mrs.  Dawson,  that's  not  to  be  thought  of.  He 
draws  well  because  he  has  taken  a  deal  of  pains. 
Even  Mr.  Lyman,  though  he  is  so  fond  of  him,  says 
he  has  no  genius." 

"How  would  you  like  to  have  him  a  merchant?" 

"A  merchant!  He  would  have  small  capital  to 
begin  on." 

"That  is   nothing.     Most  of   our  rich  men  have 


140  A    CHANGE    OF    SCENE. 

be^un  with  no  other  capital  than  enterprise,  industry, 
and  good  character.  Have  you  any  plan  for  Harry?" 

Mrs.  Davis  had.  She  was  at  that  moment  awaiting 
an  answer  from  a  respectable  carpenter,  a  friend  of 
hers  settled  in  L .  The  answer  came,  and  was  un 
favorable.  The  carpenter  had  no  vacant  place.  Mrs. 
Dawson  renewed  the  proposition  for  a  mercantile 
career.  She  proposed  that  Harry  should  enter  a  retail 
shop  in  New  York.  At  first,  Mrs.  Davis  shrank  from 
the  temptations  of  city  life,  and  uncertainties  of  trade. 
But  Mrs.  Dawson  urged  so  earnestly,  entered  into  all 
Harry's  future  with  such  friendly  and  flattering  zeal, 
that  both  mother  and  son  were  persuaded  to  think  of 
the  project  Two  or  three  other  failures  to  obtain 
places  for  which  Mrs.  Davis  had  applied,  occurred  at 
this  time ;  and  finally  it  was  agreed,  when  Mrs.  Daw- 
son  left  Salisbury,  that  she  should  make  application 
and  report  her  success. 

Soon  after  her  departure,  a  summons  came.  Harry 
had  as  neat  an  outfit  as  could  be  procured  by  twenty 
dollars,  eked  out  by  his  mother's  judgment  and  skill  in 
buying  this  and  "making  that  do"  —  twenty  dollars 


A    CHANGE    OF    SCENE.  14J 

left  her  of  her  earnings,  after  they  had  been  recovered 
at  Dunn's.  Davis  took  credit  to  himself  for  leaving 
her  so  much.  "The  rest,"  he  said,  "would  barely 
take  him  to  Washington  and  back ;  but  he  should  get 
his  patent,  and  then  he  should  show  his  wife  that  a 
man  could  earn  a  hundred  dollars  where  a  woman 
could  ten.  But,"  he  concluded,  "that  is  not  their 
fault,  poor  creatures !  There's  a  difference  by  nature 
in  men  and  women,  that's  a  fact!" 


142    HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK 


CHAPTER    IX. 

HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK. 
"  He  carried  in  his  face  the  open  sesame  to  door  and  heart  M 

cc  -m  /|-Y  DEAR  MOTHER:  — 

-L.T_JL  "Firstly,   I    enclose  the  two   dol 

lars  you  gave  me  for  travelling  expenses.  I  met 
Mr.  Lyman  on  board  the  steamboat,  and  he  gave  me 
five  dollars,  which  he  said  he  owed  me  for  my  aid  in 
the  drawings  he  made  for  the  New  York  architect 
Fine !  After  the  wet  time  of  parting  was  over,  I  was 
in  luck.  Mr.  Porter  would  not  take  any  thing  for 
bringing  me  to  the  boat,  —  thirty  good  miles,  —  because 
1  helped  him  pick  up  apples  one  day  after  Jesse  Porter 
broke  his  arm.  I  was  pretty  hungry;  but  hearing  they 
charged  half  a  dollar  for  supper,  I  bought  some 
crackers  and  cheese  before  I  went  on  board.  So  I 
came  to  the  city  for  fifty  cents.  Such  bustle  and 


HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  JNEW  YORK.    143 

confusion  as  there  was  on  the  wharf  where  we  landed! 
1  made  my  way  through  it  as  well  as  I  could,  and 
inquired  the  way  to  Chambers  Street,  not  far,  No. — v 
where  Mrs.  Dawson  lives.  I  saw  the  windows  were 
all  closed,  and  so  I  sat  my  box  of  clothes  down,  and 
sat  on  it.  I  began  to  feel  both  lonesome  and  hun 
gry ;  nothing  seemed  like  morning — the  fresh,  beauti 
ful  morning  of  the  country.  The  sun  shining  on 
chimneys  and  brick  walls,  instead  of  hill-tops  and 
sparkling  waters ;  not  a  solitary  bird  singing ;  not 
even  a  cock  crowing.  After  a  while,  milkmen  began 
to  appear.  There  was  a  different  one  for  almost  every 
house,  and  each  made  a  horrid  outcry ;  and,  after 
a  while,  a  woman  came  out  of  a  cellar,  and  took  a 
measure  of  milk.  Though  they  live  in  great  houses, 
this  seems  poverty  to  me.  By  and  by,  there  came  a 
lively  little  driver  with  baskets  full  of  bread.  I  re 
membered  Dr.  Franklin's  account  of  his  buying  a  loaf 
of  bread  and  eating  it  as  he  walked  through  the 
streets  of  Philadelphia,  when  first  he  went  there ; 
and,  though  I  do  not  expect  to  eat  bread  in  kings' 
houses,  as  he  afterwards  did,  I  thought  there  would 


J44    HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK. 

be  no  harm  in  following  his  example ;  so  I  bought  a 
sixpenny  loaf  of  bread,  and,  with  a  draught  of  milk 
from  a  milkman,  I  made  a  good  breakfast.  You  see, 
mother,  I  am  determined  to  make  my  money  last,  if 
possible,  till  I  can  earn  more,  and  not  call  on  you  or 
trouble  our  kind  friend  Mrs.  Dawson.  As  soon  as 
her  blinds  were  opened,  I  rung.  The  man  who  opened 
the  door  smiled  when  I  asked  for  Mrs.  Dawson,  and 
said  she  would  rise  in  about  two  hours.  How  long 
those  two  hours  were !  But  when  they  were  over, 
and  I  was  summoned  to  her,  she  was  as  kind  as  ever. 
She  told  me  she  had  procured  for  me  an  excellent 
place  in  a  retail  shop  in  Broadway,  where,  if  I  did  as 
well  as  my  employer  expected  from  her  account  of 
me,  I  should  receive  enough,  even  the  first  year,  to 
pay  my  board.  Before  going  there,  she  advised  me  to 
secure  a  boarding-place;  she  had  made  inquiries  for 
this,  and  gave  me  references,  and  off  I  set.  I  went 
from  one  to  another.  At  one  there  was  a  multitude 
of  clerks,  and  a  coarse,  slatternly  housekeeper;  at 
another  there  was  a  set  of  low  traders.  I  went  in 
while  they  were  at  dinner,  and  a  very  slight  observa- 


HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK.    )  45 

tior  of  their  vulgar  manners  and  conversation  con 
vinced  me  they  were  not  associates  that  I  slould 
relish  or  you  would  approve.  The  next  was  full, 
and  the  last  was  too  filthy  for  any  thing.  As  I 
came  off  the  steps  quite  discouraged,  there  was  a 
little  fat  lady  walking  before  me  in  a  gray  silk 
gown,  and  a  white  shawl,  looking  as  neat  as  a  new 
pin.  Two  dirty  shavers  of  boys  had  filled  a  squirt- 
gun  in  the  gutter,  and  had  taken  aim  at  the  lady's 
nice  gown.  I  sprang  upon  them  just  in  time, 
wrenched  the  squirt-gun  from  their  hands,  and  sent 
H  off  out  of  sight.  They  began  kicking  and  bawl 
ing;  and  she,  turning  round,  learned  the  mischief 
they  had  intended.  She  was  very  thankful  to  me, 
very  good  natured,  and  talkative.  She  told  me  the 
gown  was  new,  just  come  home,  and  she  had  put  it 
on  for  a  wedding-visit,  —  a  visit  to  her  niece's  hus 
band's  first  cousin ;  it  was  her  best  gown,  too ;  she 
had  heard  of  the  boys  playing  such  tricks ;  boys 
would  be  boys,  &c.,  &c.  O,  mother  dear !  her 
tongue  goes  by  machinery.  (Not  father's !)  She  had 

such   a  friendly  way,  and   did   not  seem   a  very  great 
13 


146    HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK. 

lady,  and  asked  me  so  many  questions,  —  my  name, 
where  I  came  from,  &c.,  —  that  I  thought  I  would  tell 
her  what  I  was  in  search  of.  This  silenced  her 
for  a  moment;  then  she  said,  "Come  home  with  me, 
and  we'll  see  what  can  be  done.  I'll  talk  to  Plenty, 
—  Plenty  is  my  sister,  —  and  perhaps  —  but  I  won't 
raise  expectations  yet.  We  live  in  Mercer  Street, 
retired  and  central  too." 

"  We  were  soon  at  her  house,  —  a  small,  two- 
story  wooden  building,  that  looks  like  a  mere  crack 
between  the  two  tall  brick  houses  on  each  side  of 
it  I  followed  her  into  a  little  front  room.  The-ie 
was  sitting  an  oldish  lady,  taking  care  of  a  little 
blind  child.  The  child  uttered  a  cry  of  delight  at 
hearing  the  sound  of  my  new  friend's  voice,  returned 
her  half  a  dozen  hasty  kisses,  and  called  her  'aunty 
Peace;'  and  the  old  lady,  into  whose  hands  she  put 
a  piece  of  wedding-cake,  said,  '  O,  thank'ee ;  tell  us  all 
about  the  wedding.'  'Directly,  directly,'  replied  my 
new  friend;  and,  bidding  me  sit  down,  and  giving  me 
a  generous  bit  of  the  wedding-cake,  she  bustled  out 
of  the  room,  saying  she  would  return  in  a  few  min- 


HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK.    147 

utes.  She  did,  and  brought  her  sister  with  her,  — 
her  twin  sister,  —  and  Peace  and  Plenty  stood  before 
me,  looking  almost  precisely  alike,  fat  and  full,  smiling 
and  abounding  —  two  cornucopias.  They  could  have 
been  called  nothing  but  Peace  and  Plenty,  or  Milk 
and  Honey.  The  only  difference  I  could  see  betweer 
them  was,  that  Peace  had  a  dimple  in  one  cheek  only, 
and  Plenty  in  both ;  that  Peace  wore  a  '  front,'  and 
Plenty  her  own  gray  hair.  However,  I  suspect  the 
*  front'  was  put  on  for  high  dress.  They  are  droll 
looking,  but  such  pleasant  faces !  Nice,  complete  sets 
of  white  teeth ;  and  well  they  are  so,  for  their  mouths 
are  never  both  shut.  Their  eyes  are  rather  small, 
but  bright  and  warm  as  sunshine  in  June,  and  their 
cheeks  are  rather  fat,  —  but  there  is  not  a  wrinkle 
near  them,  but  a  bright  color  on  them.  I  did  not 
expect  to  find  such  people  in  a  city,  so  kind,  so  plain, 
so  as  if  they  were  content  to  be  themselves,  and  did 
not  aim  to  be  like  any  body  else. 

"  Well,  dear  mother,  we  had  a  great  deal  of  talk, 
which  I  would  write,  but  have  not  time  or  paper. 
The  amount  of  it  was  that  (suppose  me  to  be  blush- 


148    HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK. 

ing)  Miss  Peace  was  pleased  with  my  appearanct  ; 
that  she  felt  moved  towards  me  by  my  saving  her 
new  gown  and  shawl ;  that,  as  soon  as  she  knew  my 
wants,  it  occurred  to  her  that,  if  Plenty  felt  as  she 
did,  they  could  board  me.  Their  house  was  pretty 
full,  to  be  sure ;  the  old  lady  and  her  grandchild, 
Nannie,  occupied  the  back  room,  Peace  and  Plenty 
the  front  chamber,  her  three  nieces  the  back  one, 
and  there  was  nothing  left  but  a  little  place  over  the 
entry,  that  they  used  for  a  clothes-press ;  but  they 
might  take  the  clothes  out,  and  put  me  in;  I  should 
have  to  stand  on  my  bed  to  dress,  but  I  could  keep 
my  clothes  in  boxes  under  it,  and  there  was  room  to 
put  my  arm  between  the  wall  and  bed  to  get  them, 
and  I  could  hang  some  tilings  up,  and  it  would  be 
handy  reaching.  I  did  make  one  suggestion,  mother 
—  Where  should  I  put  a  wash-basin  ? 

"'I  like  that,'  said  Peace,  and  Plenty  nodded  iiei 
approbation;  indeed,  I  find  it's  always  a  voice  anc  an 
echo,  no  matter  which  speaks  first. 

" '  There's  a  nice  little  closet  for  washing,  in  the 
area,'  she  said ;  '  it  has  a  window,  and  room  for  a 


HARRVS    FIRST    LETTER    FROM    NEW    FORK.      149 

wash-stand  and  a  small  tub  ;  and  there's  a  lock  on  the 
door,  and  you  shall  have  it  all  to  yourself.' 

"  Now,  but  two  points  remained  to  be  settled. 
Miss  Peace  would  make  suitable  inquiries  about  me 
of  Mrs.  Dawson,  because  it  was  customary.  It  was 
enough  for  her  to  look  in  my  face  ;  (blushing  again, 
dear  mother.)  The  other  point  was  the  price  of  my 
board.  'The  cost,'  she  thought,  'would  be  about  two 
dollars  ;  and  her  profits,'  she  said,  with  a  smile,  '  she 
would  get  out  of  little  services  I  could  render.  It 
would  be  handy  having  one  mankind  in  the  house.' 

"  Two  dollars  I  can  pay,  as  Holson  has  promised 
me  a  salary  of  a  hundred  dollars  a  year,  with  two 
weeks'  vacation.  So,  mother,  I  felt  very  happy.  Miss 
Teace  went  with  me  to  Mrs.  Dawson's,  without  any 
Jelay ;  and,  after  a  short  private  interview,  they  were 
both  perfectly  satisfied.  Mrs.  Dawson  had  heard  of 
the  twin  sisters,  and  was  rejoiced  that  Providence  had 
directed  me  to  so  good  a  home  ;  and  my  new  friend's 
face  sparkled  all  over,  at  the  good  account  our  kind 
benefactress  had  given  of  us.  In  addition  to  the  low 
board,  —  for  I  find  it  is  very  low  here.  —  the  sisters 


150    HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK. 

have  my  washing  done  in  the  house.  They  have  one 
servant,  and  they  say,  that  on  washing-days  they  will 
do  a  littb  more  for  her,  and  it  will  not  come  hard  to 
any  one.  It  is  all  '  live  and  let  live '  here.  Their 
nieces  are  three  orphan  girls;  one  but  two  years  older 
than  little  Lucy,  whom  I  am  to  carry  to  "school  and 
fetch  home,  when  the  days  are  stormy;  one  eight, 
and  one  fourteen,  thinner,  more  city  looking  than 
Annie,  —  I  mean  in  point  of  health,  —  but  as  unaffected 
and  frank  as  Annie  herself ;  and,  being  just  about 
Annie's  age,  she  seems  very  natural  to  me,  and  I 
think  we  shall  be  quite  friends.  Her  name  is  Mary 
Hale. 

"After  getting  all  things  settled  in  my  press-room, 
I  went  to  Mrs.  Dawson,  who  wished  to  introduce  me 
to  Mr.  Holson.  He  was  very  civil  to  our  friend;  but, 
I  must  confess,  I  did  not  like  his  looks;  and  his  man 
ner  seemed  to  me  both  sly  and  fawning.  He  spoke 
of  the  very  uncommon  terms  on  which  I  was  coming; 
of  my  rare  good  fortune  —  being  a  raw  hand  —  in 
obtaining  a  salary ;  said  I  must  thank  Mrs.  Dawson 
for  it ;  Mrs.  Dawson  was  one  of  his  best  customers  — 


HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK.     151 

hoped  she  would  continue  so ;  said  he  should  expect 
extra  service  for  such  extra  salary;  mentioned  some 
shops  where  no  salary  was  paid,  and  others  where 
clerks  paid  for  their  places;  and  said,  in  rather  a 
lower  voice,  —  still  I  heard  him,  —  that  dress  was  very 
important  to  the  impression  of  the  shop ;  that  clerks 
should  have  a  fashionable  air;  that  my  clothes  were 
country-made ;  that  it  was  a  disadvantage ;  but,  for 
Mrs.  Dawson's  sake,  he  would  put  up  with  a  great  deal. 
"I  was  a  little  provoked,  mother,  but  I  tried  to 
remember  that  you  had  told  me,  again  and  again,  not 
always  to  expect  smooth  sailing ;  that  life  was  a  sort 
of  checker-work,  and  that  I  must  be  grateful  for  the 
good,  and  make  the  best  of  the  evil,  and  that  what 
seems  evil  to  us  often  turns  out,  in  the  end,  to  be 
good,  &c.,  &c.  I  have  far  more  good  than  evil  in  my 
fortune.  Nothing  can  exceed  Mrs.  Dawson's  kindness; 
and  then  my  luck  in  my  boarding-house !  Mother,  it 
will  be  a  home  to  me.  Mr.  Holson  told  me  to  come 
to  his  shop  in  the  evening,  and  he  would  give  me  his 
instructions.  The  clerks  surveyed  me  superciliously. 
I  hjard  the  words  'shabby,'  and  'down  east,'  and  one 


152    HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK. 

of  them  was  ill-bred  enough  to  touch  his  own  neck 
cloth  and  point  to  mine,  and,  at  the  same  time,  wink 
to  his  companion.  Mother,  I  felt  mortified,  plagued ; 
I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it,  but  I  did.  I  know 
there  was  a  want  of  manliness  and  independence  in 
this,  and  I  am  ashamed  of  it;  but  things  look  so 
different  in  New  York  and  in  Salisbury !  When  I 
left  home,  I  felt  as  if  you  had  provided  every  thing 
I  could  want, — as  if  I  were  a  little  too  smart,  if  any 

thing,  —  and   now  ! But    I    am   determined   not   to 

give  up  to  it.  I  will  not  sacrifice  a  principle  to  an 
appearance.  I  will  not  make  myself  one  of  the 
'clothes  people!' 

"While  I  was  at  tea,  Mrs.  Dawson's  servant 
brought  me  a  note  enclosing  fifteen  dollars  —  a  present 
':om  her  to  enable  me,  she  says,  to  present  myself 
nore  acceptably  in  Mr.  Holson's  shop. 

"This  is  very,  very  kind,  very  generous.  But, 
mother,  I  shall  not  accept  it.  In  the  first  place,  it 
would  be  going  right  in  the  face  of  your  instruc 
tions  —  '  I  must  depend  on  my  own  exertions. 


HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK.     153 

Charities  are  for  the  helpless.  A  dependence  on 
gifts,  if  it  does  not  make  us  mean  and  cringing', 
does  make  us  helpless.'  This  I  learned  from  you ; 
and,  from  my  own  reflection,  I  am  sure  I  stall  respect 

myself    more    a    month   hence,   if   I    go    before    those 

_ 
impertinent    young    men   in   my    plain,   rather    coarsish 

country  clothes.     So  I'll  face  it  out  like   a  man. 

"I  spent  the  afternoon  in  walking  round  the  city, 
and  in  looking  at  the  beautiful  fountains.  There 
are  three  large  ones,  and  are  to  be  many  more. 
The  water  is  thrown  sixty  feet  into  the  air,  and  then 
falls  back  in  showers  of  jewels,  as  it  seems  when 
the  sun  shines.  I  sat  down  in  Union  Park,  and 
looked  and  listened,  till  I  fancied  I  felt  the  cool 
breath  of  Rhigi  by  the  brook-side.  These  fountains 
in  the  city  seem  to  me  like  a  bit  of  lovely  poetry 
in  a  book  of  tiresome  prose.  They  are  a  voice  from 
another  land,  a  breath  from  home.  I  remained,  sit-  ' 
ting  near  the  fountain,  refreshed  and  thoughtful.  I 
do  not  know  whether  it  was  dream  or  reverie,  but  I 
was  coming  down  Rhigi  with  Clapham ;  and  then 


154    HARRY'S  FIRST  LETTER  FROM  NEW  YORK. 

we   were  all  kneeling  around  dear  little  Lucy's  red 

and  Clapham  was    with  us.      Suddenly  I  started  up, 

and   saw  the  stars  shining,  and  felt    my  cheeks  wet 
with  the  spray   or  with  tears,  dear  mother '' 


COMRADES.  155 


CHAPTEJl    X. 
JAIL    COMRADES. 
"Is  the  boy  of  the  wicked?" 

CLAPHAIL  was  committed  for  trial  by  tie  justice  at 
L .,      The   sittings  of  the  Court  of  Common 

Pleas  began  the  following  week.  He  was  instructed 
that  he  might  have  counsel  allowed  him,  and  might 
have  the  privilege,  common  to  all  criminals,  of  pleading 
not  guilty;  but  he  was,  at  the  same  time,  told  that 
the  proofs  were  too  strong  against  him  to  admit  a 
hope  of  escape,  and  was  advised  to  plead  guilty,  and 
gain  favor  by  occasioning  the  least  possible  trouble. 
No  boy  ever  more  dreaded  being  shut  up  in  a  jail, 
but  he  was  in  a  state  of  despair.  He  had  lost,  as 
he  believed,  forever,  the  affection,  so  well  earned,  of 
his  beloved  friends;  he  had  lost  every  thing  but  hia 
self-respect.  This  was  not  gone,  and  it  was  so  strongly 


156  JAIL    COMRADES. 

indicated  in  his  upward,  straightforward  glance,  in 
the  open  expression  of  his  face,  and  his  quiet,  and 
almost  dignified  demeanor,  that  his  counsel  did  not  find 
it  difficult  to  get  an  abatement  of  the  usual  sentence 
in  like  offences,  and,  instead  of  being  sent  to  the 
State  Prison,  he  was  remanded  to  the  County  Jail, 
to  remain  there  for  two  years,  beginning  with  one 
month's  confinement  in  a  dark  cell. 

It  is  a  punishment  almost  too  heavy  to  be  borne, 
to  be,  at  any  age,  shut  up  in  solitude  and  darkness ; 
but  to  this  mountain  boy,  this  free  ranger  over  hill 
and  valley,  who  had  lived  with 

"The  mountain  wind  — most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
"The  wide  earth  knows,"  — 

to  be  thus  caged  in  the  growing  time  of  youth,  when 
activity  was  the  Jaw  of  his  nature,  was  most  painful 
His  hours  dragged  heavily.  At  first,  the  future  was 
all  a  blank  to  him.  He  snrank  from  it.  It  held  out 
no  hope  to  him,  no  prospect  of  any  thing  pleasant 
or  inviting.  The  past  was  all.  And  over  the  past, 
in  spite  of  the  evil  that  had  attended  it,  there  was 
a  golden  light  from  the  friendship  of  that  blessed 


JAIL    COMRADES.  157 

little  family  that  had  encouraged  and  stimulated  him. 
He  reviewed,  again  and  again,  his  past  life,  and  he 
had  infinite  comfort  in  remembering  many  temptations 
he  had  resisted,  many  good  resolutions  he  had  formed, 
and  kept;  and,  gradually,  as  his  ideas  became  more 
settled,  he  felt  more  patient.  A  great  many  things 
he  had  heard  Mrs.  Davis  say,  and  which,  at  the  time, 
made  little  impression,  and  which  he  had  quite  for 
gotten,  now  recurred  to  his  memory,  and  seemed  to 
come  out  in  letters  of  light.  "God  does  not  see  as 
man  sees ! "  "  Despair  and  a  good  conscience  don't 
keep  company."  "Trust  in  God,  do  right,  and  all 
will  come  right."  These,  and  many  others  of  her 
good,  familiar  sayings,  were  on  his  horizon  like  the 
first  faint  streaks  of  dawn,  and,  after  the  first  throb 
bing  agony  was  past,  he  had  many  peaceful  waking 
hours.  But,  when  he  was  asleep,  owing  to  bad  air 
and  want  of  exercise,  he  had  horrid  dreams.  His 
mother  would  seem  to  be  lying  dead-drunk  upon  him, 
and  he  could  not  remove  her.  His  father  was  drag 
ging  him  over  stones,  and  through  sloughs,  and  then  he 
would  hear  smothered  cries  of  "  Murder ! "  and  "  Fire ! " 


158  JAIL    COMRADES. 

and  awake  in  a  cold  sweat,  and  shivering  with  ague. 
Once  in  a  great  while,  he  would  have  a  sweet  sleep, 
and  pleasant  dream  of  fishing  down  Rhigi's  sparkling 
brook,  and  Annie  would  be  standing  with  a  basket  of 
berries  beside  him,  and  he  would  feel  little  Lucy's  warm 
kiss  on  his  cheek.  O,  then  how  dreary  the  waking! 

It  seemed  to  Clapham,  when  he  had  passed  one 
day  in  that  dark  cell,  that  the  month  would  never 
come  to  an  end;  but  it  was  soon  gone  —  gone  with 
its  record  to  Him  who  awardeth  judgment ;  and  most 
happy  for  Clapham,  that  he  had  used  some  of  these 
hours  for  meditation,  for  penitence  and  prayer,  and  for 
good  resolutions  against  the  day  of  freedom  and  out 
ward  temptation. 

The  month  was  gone,  and  Clapham  was  removed 
to  a  large  apartment,  in  which  were  several  persons, 
some  already  sentenced  to  a  term  of  imprisonment, 
and  others  awaiting  their  trial.  Some  were  in  for 
grave  offences,  others  for  trivial  ones.  The  proved 
guilty  and  the  possibly  innocent  in  close  companion 
ship !  Few  improvements  had  then  been  made  in  the 
jails.  They  were  strictly  places  of  punishment  Cor- 


JAIL    COMRADE  159 

rection  and  reformation  were  woras  almost  unwritten 
in  the  penal  code.  The  criminal  was  then  considered 
a  hopeless  outcast,  not,  as  now,  a  weak,  r^glected, 
unfortunate  brother,  to  be  pitied  and  cared  for  not,  as 
now,  an  infirm  child,  to  be  restrained  because  danger 
ous,  to  suffer  because  disobedient,  and  to  be  restored 
to  trust  as  soon  as  he  deserved  it. 

At  the  period  of  Clapham's  imprisonment,  there  were 
no  employments  provided.  If  a  man  were  industrious 
and  ingenious,  he  might,  perhaps,  obtain  materials  for 
labor,  and  work  on  his  own  account ;  but,  for  the  most 

part,  the  prison  at  L ,  like  others,  was  a  scene  of 

complete  idleness.  One  man  had  a  dirty  pack  of 
cards,  with  which  he  and  a  comrade  played  from 
morning  till  night,  with  interludes  of  telling  fortunes, 
and  playing  tricks  with  them. 

Others  pitched  coppers  all  day  long.  One  man, 
whose  wife  supplied  him  with  tobacco,  smoked  un 
ceasingly;  and  all,  with  the  exception  of  one  French 
man  and  a  shoemaker,  chewed  and  spit  to  the  right 
hand  and  the  left,  from  morning  till  night  —  a  fitting 
pastime  for  a  jail. 


• 


160  JAIL    COMRADES. 

Clapham  had  come  forth  from  his  solitary  cell  with 
feelings  that  made  this  society  most  odious  to  him. 
The  vulgar,  profane,  and  indecent  language  he  heard 
shocked  him,  and,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  he  some 
times  wished  for  his  solitude. 

Slocum,  the  owner  of  the  cards,  invited  him  to 
take  a  hand,  and  offered  to  teach  him.  He  saw  the 
boy  was  wretched,  and  probably  had  a  good-natured 
desire  to  make  him  less  so.  But,  when  Clapham  de 
clined  his  advances,  he  and  his  companion  laughed  at 
him,  and,  as  they  called  it,  poked  fun  at  him.  One 
called  him  a  toad,  and  advised  him  to  crawl  back  to 
his  hole ;  and  the  other  an  owl,  who  had  no  use  of 
his  eyes  now  he  had  come  back  to  daylight.  The 
Frenchman,  Deleau,  took  his  part.  He  was  a  kind- 
hearted  man,  and  ingenious,  and  diligent,  as  most 
Frenchmen  are ;  for,  in  the  worst  circumstances,  they 
can  find  something  to  do.  Deleau  had  been  in  part 
nership  with  a  pedler.  It  was  proved  their  goods  were 
stolen.  Deleau  maintained  that  he  was  ignorant  of 
this ;  but  the  pedler  escaped,  and  Deleau  was  taken, 
and  as  he  could  not  prove  his  innocence,  he  waa 


JAIL    COMRADES.  i 

sentenced  to  fifteen  months'  imprisonment  in  the  L 

jail.  He  spoke  broken  English,  and  was  mimicked 
and  laughed  at  by  the  jail  company ;  but  this  he  did 
cot  mind.  He  was  always  good  humored,  and  ready 
*x>  do  small  favors,  and,  by  degrees,  he  became  a  gen 
eral  favorite.  Even  the  worst  people  feel  those  little 
hourly  acts  of  kindness  that  are  the  cement  of  society, 
and  spread  over  its  face  cheerfulness  and  smiles. 

"  What  for  trouble  you  this  little  lad  ?  "  said  Deleau ; 
"  you  should  be,  for  him,  father  and  mother." 

"  Come  to  your  ma',  my  dear,"  screamed  Slocum, 
and  he  caught  Clapham  in  his  arms,  and  swung  him 
backward  and  forward,  singing  "  Rock-a-by,  baby  bunt 
ing."  Clapham  resisted  manfully,  straggled  and  kicked, 
till  Slocum,  feeling  himself  hurt,  flew  into  a  passion, 
and  hit  Clapham  a  blow  in  the  face.  He  staggered 
and  fell,  bruised  and  bloody.  The  noise  called  up  the 
jailer,  who,  on  opening  the  door,  and  perceiving,  as  he 
said,  that  the  boy  had  "got  into  a  fight  already," 
tlireatened  to  send  him  back  to  the  solitary  cell :  and 
then,  as  if  he  had  quite  done  his  duty,  he  relocked  the 

door. 

14 


162  JAIL    COMRADES. 

"Monsieur  Jailer  is  one  very  good  keeper  for  de 
wild  beast,"  said  Deleau,  "  but  a  miserable  for  de  young 
man.  It  signify  not.  I  will  do  what  I  can  do,  in  this 
very  pretty  place."  He  then  filled  his  basin  with 
water,  (he  had  procured  some  comforts  for  his  own 
private  use,)  and  called  Clapham  to  his  end  of  the 
room,  and  while  he  was  washing  off  the  blood,  he  said, 
"Listen  me,  my  dear;  I  will  be  your  good  friend; 
when  you  cannot  be  master,  stay  quiet." 

"  But  I'll  not  be  made  a  baby  and  a  fool  of ! "  said 
Clapham,  whose  temper  was  thoroughly  roused. 

"  Quite  to  the  contrary,  my  friend ;  he  is  the  fool 
who  makes  the  wrong,  and  he  the  wise  little  man 
who  suffers  it" 

"I  am  not  so  \«?ry  little  either,"  replied  Clapham, 
"  and  I'll  let  those  fellows  know  I'll  not  be  imposed  on." 

"You  have  reason,  my  friend;  but  if  dey  kindle  a 
fire,  what  for  you  burn  yourself  up  in  it  ?  No,  no  ;  keep 
clear  of  bad  fellow ;  do  nothing  wid  'em ;  say  noting  to 
'em.  'Tis  not  one  very  pretty  place  here!  but  we  can 
make  place  for  ourself.  I  am  not  happy  man  to  be 
here.  I  do  not  merit  it;  but  I  could  not  help  it  I 


JAIL    COMRADES.  163 

was  stranger  in  de  country.  Nobody  knew  me.  I  was 
de  sheep  found  wid  de  fox.  But  what  for,  my  dear, 
cry,  and  lose  life  —  de  laugh  is  more  for  de  health!" 

"I,  too,  was  the  poor  sheep  found  with  the  fox," 
thought  Clapham ;  "  but  I  cannot  laugh." 

However,  the  kind  philosophy  of  the  Frenchman 
had  a  good  effect,  and  it  was  followed  by  substantial 
services.  Deleau  had  purchased  favors  of  the  jailer 
by  making  rings  of  horse-hair  for  his  wife  and  daugh 
ters.  They  were  made  of  black  and  white  hair,  with 
names  interwoven.  These  rings  were  shown,  and  De 
leau  had  many  applications  to  make  more ;  so  that,  for 
some  time,  he  drove  quite  a  gaining  trade.  He  told 
this  to  Clapham. 

"The  trade,"  he  said,  "has  now  abated;  still  I 
make  two,  sometime  three,  four  a  week,  and  four  make 
one  dollar.  I  have  one  little  sum  to  begin  the  world 
when  I  leave  this  place.  Now  you  shall  be  my  part 
ner.  I  teach  you,  and  you  shall  have  a  share  of  my 
business,  and  in  two  month  more,  all  to  yourself." 

Clapham's  face  brightened.  He  had  again  found  a 
friend.  He  set  about  learning  to  weave  the  rings 


164  %  JAIL    COMRADES. 

with  fifood  heart.  At  first,  he  was  awkward  enough; 
but  he  was  patient.  Deleau  encouraged  him,  and 
when  Clapham  thanked  him,  he  said,  "  Very  well,  mv 
dear.  I  like  to  hear  'thank  you;'  it  is  good  of  man 
ner  ;  and  de  boy  of  your  country  are  as  fraid  of  man 
ner  as  if  dey  were  small-pox ;  but  what  please  me 
more  than  words  is  your  face,  and  your  voice,  no 
no  longer  miserable.  Dere,  dat  bit  is  fine !  Now 
make  one  all  yourself.  Put  in  dat  name  you  like 
best." 

Clapham  began  with  fresh  zeal.  Deleau,  who  was 
singing  over  his  own  work,  now  and  then  cast  a  side 
long  glance  at  Clapham,  to  assure  himself  the  boy 
made  no  mistake.  "It  is  done!"  said  Clapham,  show 
ing  it  to  nis  master,  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction,  "and 
all  right,  I  — I  believe." 

"  Bravo !  bravo,  my  friend !  as  right  as  if  Monsieur 
Deleau  had  done  it  himself!  ' Annie!''  dat  is  de  name 
you  like  best?" 

"No,  no.  Harry  is  the  'lame  I  like  best  in  the 
world;  but  boys  do  not  wear  rings,  so  I  made  it  for 
Harry's  sister  Annie;  lut  neither  Harry  nor  Annie/' 


JAIL    COMRADES.  105 

he  concluded,  with  a  sigh,  "  will  wear  a  ring  of  my 
making,  now." 

"Never  despair,  my  dear  friend;  good  people  for 
give  and  forget.  Put  up  de  ring  safe;  one  bright  day 
you  may  put  it  on  Mademoiselle  Annie  finger  for  a 
wedding-ring." 

"  O,  never  !  never  !  never  in  the  world !  A  wed 
ding-ring!  How  foolish,  Mr.  Deleau!"  —  "As  if  I 
should  ever  be  married,"  thought  Clapham ;  "  and  if 
I  were,  as  if  ever  Annie  Davis  would  look  at  such 
a  thing  as  I  am  —  a  jail-bird." 

Not  many  days  after  this,  fortunately  for  Deleau, 
unfortunately  for  Clapham,  Deleau  received  a  permit 

to   leave   the   prison.     The   pedler,  his   former   partnerv 

* 
had   been  taken.      He    had   confessed    his    guilt,    and 

averred  Deleau's  innocence.  This  came  to  the  knowl 
edge  of  a  young  lawyer,  who  had  defended  Deleau  at 
the  time  of  his  commitment,  and  who  had  then  be 
come  interested  in  the  poor  Frenchman.  He  had 
voluntarily  taken  the  pains  to  procure  Deleau's  re 
lease.  "I  am  as  sorry  to  leave  you,"  he  said  to 
Clapham,  at  parting,  "  as  if  you  were  my  own  poor 


166  JAIL    COMRADES. 

little  boy.  I  had  once  one  little  boy."  For  the  first 
time,  Clapham  saw  his  eyes  fill  with  tears ;  he  wiped 
them  away,  and  proceeded.  "  He  is  gone  to  de  gooo. 
God.  De  sweetest  flowers  are  always  taken  for  de 
Paradise." 

"  So  they  are ! "  exclaimed  Clapham.  He  though 
of  little  Lucy. 

"  Ah,  we  must  all  finish !  "  resumed  Deleau 
"perhaps  de  sooner  de  better." 

"I  think  so,  Mr.  Deleau." 

"  Ah,  you  must  not  tink  so.  You  are  too  young 
to  tink  so.  A  cloudy  morning  may  turn  out  very 
bright  day  —  first  'rote !  So,  I  expect,  will  Clapham. 
Courage,  my  good  boy !  When  you  come  out  oi  dis 
pretty  placa,  write  to  Paul  Deleau,  New  York. 
While  you  stay  here,  make  de  ring ;  or  do  someting, 
always  do  someting.  Above  all,  keep  away  from  do 
bad  fellow  wid  de  cards  and  de  pitch-penny." 

They  parted,  and  poor  Clapham  felt  desolate 
enough.  The  ring  trade  had  become  very  dull. 
The  jailer  took  no  pains  to  dispose  of  them.  Clap- 
ham,  however,  went  on  making  them  as  long  as  his 


JAIL    COMRADES.  167 

materials  lasted.  Then  the  jailer  was  surly,  and 
would  procure  him  no  more.  So  Clapham  fell  back 
into  inevitable  idleness.  His  days  dragged  heavily 
on.  He  very  civilly  asked  the  jailer  to  bring  him  a 
spelling-book,  at  the  same  time  telling  him  he  had 
plenty  of  money  to  pay  him  for  it.  The  jailer,  at 
first,  made  a  sort  of  half  promise  he  would  attend 
to  it;  but,  when  Clapham  again  and  again  reminded 
him  of  it,  he  became  vexed,  and  said  he  had  some 
thing  else  to  do  than  to  be  bothered  with  buying 
spelling-books  for  chaps.  Slocum  had  been  for  some 
days  watching  Clapham,  and  had  become  wonderfully 
civil  to  him.  Slocum's  wife  had  brought  him  a 

basket   of   apples  and    gingerbread.      He   offered  Clap- 

• 

ham  a  share.      Clapham   took   it,  and   thanked   him. 

"  Now,  that's  friendly,"  he  said  ;  "  I  knew  you  was 
not  a  boy  to  bear  malice.  I  told  Dick  Hunt,  when 
that  outlandish  Frenchman  went  away,  you  would  find 
out  we  were  full  as  good  friends  to  you  as  he 
Come,  don't  be  sucking  your  thumbs  all  day.  Sit 
down  here,  and  look  over  the  cards.  You  will  soon 
know  how  to  play  as  well  as  we."  Clapham  drew  up 


168  JAIL    COMRADES. 

to  them  and  became  interested.  Slocum  winked  to 
his  comoanion.  "To-morrow  you  shall  take  a  hand," 
he  said ;  "  there's  no  harm  in  life  in  playing  when 
there's  nothing  else  to  do."  It  soon  became  too 
dark  to  discern  the  spots  on  the  cards  ;  and,  no 
lights  being  allowed  in  the  prison,  the  cards  were 
put  aside. 

Clapham  had  no  sooner  lain  down  on  his  bed 
for  the  night,  than  the  thought  came  to  him  like  a 
blow,  "How  could  I  forget  Mr.  Deleau's  advice  to 
keep  clear  of  Slocum  ?  I  am  sorry !  sorry  !  But 
what  shall  I  do  with  these  everlasting  long  days  ? 
If  I  had  any  kind  of  a  book,  perhaps  I  might  spell 
out  the  words.  Perhaps  Plum  will  let  me  wax  his 
threads  for  him.  I'll  try  him."  It  was  a  good 
consequence  of  Clapham's  solitary  confinement,  that 
he  had  acquired  the  habit,  so  soon  as  he  laid  him 
self  down,  of  considering  his  past  conduct  and  future 
duties. 

When  the  jailer  presented  himself  the  next,  morn 
ing,  Clapham  begged  him  to  lend  him  any  old  book. 
"Bat  you  can't  read,"  said  the  man,  gruffly.  "Per- 


JAIL    COMRADES.  169 

haps  I  tin  learn,"  urged  Clapham.  "And  what  use 
will  you  make  of  it  ?  No,  no ;  the  less  such  as  you 
know  the  better."  And  thus  this  ignorant  man  dis 
appointed  Clapham,  and  himself  lost  one  golden  op 
portunity  of  doing  good  and  kindness. 

Thus  rebuffed,  Clapham  turned  to  his  last  hope  ; 
and  a  forlorn  hope  was  that  forbidding-faced  man, 
Plum.  Poor  Clapham  timidly  approached  him.  "  I  say, 
Mr.  Plum,"  he  began,  in  a  low  voice,  for  he  dreaded 
Slocum  and  Hunt's  laugh ;  "  don't  you  want  a  'pren 
tice?"  No  answer;  and  he  repeated  the  question. 
Plum  shook  his  head.  "I'll  not  plague  you,"  con 
tinued  Clapham;  "I'll  begin  with  waxing  the  threads." 

"You'll  break  and  waste." 

"  Only  try  me,  Mr.  Plum."  Again  Plum  shook  his 
head.  "  I  can  at  least  hammer  the  soles  for  you." 
Again  a  decisive  shake  of  the  head.  "  Do  let  me 
try,  Mr.  Plum,  I  am  so  tired  doing  nothing.  I  soon 
learned  to  make  rings  of  Mr.  Deleau;  why  can't  I 
learn  to  mrke  shoes  ? " 

"  And  then  sell    them    on    your    own  account,    as 

vou  did  the  rings,  hey?    I  can  make  myself  all  that 
15 


170  JAIL    COMRADES. 

will  sell.  If  you  don't  learn  it  will  be  bother,  and 
if  you  do  learn  it  will  be  loss."  Still  Clapham 
urged.  He  had  felt  the  good  and  happiness  of  oc 
cupation  —  that  it  could  even  make  the  hours  glide 
lightly  on  in  that  loathsome  jail.  "I  will  try  my 
best,  Mr.  Plum,"  he  said ;  "  as  long  as  I  stay  in 
this  place,  I  will  work  for  you.  I  promise  you." 

"  Promise !  hum !  What  is  the  promise  of  the 
like  of  you  worth  ? " 

"I  am  not  a  liar!"  said  Clapham,  coloring  up  to 
the  very  roots  of  his  hair. 

"That's  more  than  I  know  or  believe.  Boys  is  no 
use ;  I  hate  them  —  I  always  did." 

"And  they  will  hate  you,"  replied  Clapham,  his 
too  quick  temper  rising  beyond  his  control ;  "  you 
are  a  hateful  and  hard-hearted  man ! " 

Clapham  had  unconsciously  raised  his  voice.  Slo- 
cum  and  Hunt  cried  out,  "Hurrah!  that's  it,  my  boy! 
go  it,  Clap !  you're  coming  on ;  pay  it  on  to  the  old 
carrion ! " 

Clapham  did  not  answer  them.  He.  slunk  away 
by  himself,  ashamed  of  having  said  any  thing  these 


JAIL    COMRADES.  171 

bad  men  applauded.  Slocum  and  Hunt  thought 
this  too  good  an  occasion  to  renew  their  attack  on 
Clapham  to  be  lost.  They  knew  he  had  two  or  three 
dollars  which  he  had  earned  in  the  ring  trade  ;  this 
money  —  this  precious  means  of  procuring  rum  and 
tobacco,  for  which  they  were  always  hankering  —  they 
were  pretty  sure  of  getting  possession  of,  if  they 
could  once  cajole  him  into  playing.  9  But  all  their 
solicitations  were,  as  yet,  in  vain.  The  poor,  tempted 
boy  was,  as  yet,  steadfast  in  his  firm  resolutions. 
The  memory  of  his  friends  was,  as  yet,  a  guardian 
angel  to  him. 

We  may  as  well  conclude  this  chapter  with  a 
brief  notice  of  Plum,  who  was  a  very  strong  illus 
tration  of  a  passion  that,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree, 
wofully  prevails  in  our  land,  —  a  strong  but  a  singular 
illustration  of  it,  —  for,  if  our  people  are  avaricious, 
they  are  often  very  generous,  sometimes  profuse.  If 
Clapham  had  not  been  urged  on  by  the  keenest  de 
sire  of  employment,  Plum's  aspect  must  have  repelled 
him.  He  was  short  and  spare,  with  a  little  head 
bent  forward  ;  his  face  was  shrunken,  and  his  skin 


172  JAIL    COMRADES. 

shrivelled  like  an  overbaked  pear ;  his  sunken  eye 
glowed  like  a  coal  of  fire  in  a  dark  place  ;  his 
thin  lips,  sharply  closed,  seemed  scarcely  to  have 
smiled,  even  when  he  was  a  baby  in  his  mother's 
arms  ;  he  did  not  appear  as  if  there  had  ever  in 
his  life  been  a  period  of  youth  and  freshness.  One 
passion  —  a  greed  of  gain  —  had  ruled  him  from  child 
hood  ;  he  was  now  past  fifty.  He  had  no  wife,  no 
children,  no  one  to  provide  for,  and  certainly  he  never 
allowed  himself  an  indulgence  from  the  fruit  of  his 
labor.  Still,  for  fifty  years,  he  had  toiled  from  day 
light  to  dark,  as  if  to  save  himself  from  starvation. 

His  shoe-shop  was  in  a  small   town   near  L .      He 

was  a  man  of  few  words,  quiet  and  inoffensive  ; 
doing,  as  was  believed,  neither  good  nor  harm.  It  is 
true  that  he  had  been  several  times  suspected  of 
making  false  charges;  but  they  were  so  petty,  and 
the  man  so  industrious,  and  so  free  from  temptation 
to  fraud,  that  the  persons  wronged  concluded  there 
was  some  mistake,  and  let  it  pass. 

There    was    a    tannery    in     Plum's    neighborhood, 
from  which  its   proprietor    had    missed   leather;   never, 


JAIL    COMRADES.  173 

however,  more  than  one  hide  at  a  rime  ;  so  he  made 
no  fuss  about  it,  though  he  was  much  troubled  by 
being  forced  to  suspect  one  person  after  another. 
He  was  detained  in  the  tanyard,  one  day,  much  be 
yond  his  usual  time ;  it  was  starlight.  He  perceived 
a  man  crouched,  burdened,  and  stealing  along  by  the 
fence.  He  followed  him  till  the  person  entered 
Plum's  house ;  and  he  saw  that  it  was  Plum  him 
self.  One  may  imagine  Plum's  dismay,  when,  two 
hours  after,  the  tanner  entered  his  dwelling  with  a 
sheriff  and  search-warrant.  What  a  dwelling  for  an 
industrious  man!  One  apartment  was  a  work-shop, 
and  the  other  —  not  much  larger  than  a  coffin  — 
served  him  for  kitchen  and  bed-room.  The  tanner 
and  sheriff  proceeded  to  a  loft  and  cellar,  and  both 
were  filled  with  stolen  property,  for  the  most  part 
of  little  value;  and,  except  the  few  hides  he  had 
stolen  from  the  tanner,  of  no  worth  to  Plum.  It 
was  almost  laughable  that,  among  other  lumber,  {here 
was  a  bat  and  ball,  and  a  sled  that  a  little  boy, 
through  all  the  pleasant  coasting  days  of  winter,  had 
missed  and  mourned.  Plum  seemed  to  have  stolen  them 


174  JAIL    COMRADES. 

from  the  mere  passion  of  acquisition,  or,  perhaps,  as 
lie  said  to  Clapham,  he  truly  hated  boys,  and  had  a 
dreary  pleasure  in  spoiling  their  sport.  At  last, 
buried  in  the  cellar,  under  every  thing  else,  the 

searchers  discovered  bags  of   specie,  assorted ;    dollars 

% 
in  one,  half  dollars  in  another,  and   so   on,  down  to   a 

bag  of  cents.  While  they  were  counting  the  money, 
—  which  amounted  to  fourteen  hundred  and  forty 
dollars  and  thirty-two  cents,  —  Plum,  who,  till  then, 
had  been  silent,  only  becoming  more  and  more  livid, 
began  to  cry  and  wring  his  hands,  and  offer  to  pay 
double  the  price  of  the  hides  if  they  would  go  away 
and  leave  him.  The  tanner  told  him  the  matter  had 
gone  too  far ;  he  was  in  the  sheriff's  hands ;  but  he 
would  befriend  him  if  he  would  tell  him  how  he 
had  come  to  the  pass  of  prowling  about  nights  like 
a  hungry  fox,  and  preying  upon  others'  property,  when 
he  had  plenty  of  his  own. 

The  amount  of  his  confession  was,  that  he  had 
been  a  working,  saving  lad  from  the  beginning ; 
that  he  was  honest  at  first,  but  he  loved  money  (the 
poor  wretch  called  it  gain)  so  well  that  he  sold  hia 


JAIL    COMRADES.  175 

school-books,  and  whatever  little  presents  were  given 
•  him,  and  laid  up  the  money.  Even  in  those  early 
days,  nothing  pleased  him  like  making  "  a  good 
bargain." 

His  first  theft  was  during  ID'S  apprenticeship,  — 
small  bits  of  leather,  with  which  he  cobbled  shoes 
at  an  under  price  when  the  shop  was  shut,  and  his 
master  believed  he  was  in  bed.  Then  he  took 
leather  enough  for  a  pair  of  shoes,  of  which  he 
made  private  sale ;  and  so  he  had  gone  on,  from 
year  to  year,  increasing  his  burden  of  guilt  and 
fear,  and  gaining  —  what  ?  some  round  bits  of  silver 
and  copper  to  bury  in  his  cellar,  when  stones  would 
have  served  that  purpose  as  well. 

But  are  there  not  men  with  a  wider  horizon 
than  Plum's,  as  diligent,  and  more  fortunate,  who 
accumulate  gains  and  go  on  getting,  each  new  load 
pressing  a  little  more  of  the  life-blood  out  of  their 
hearts  ?  The  earth,  instead  of  being  fed  from  their 
fountains  with  streams  of  liberality  and  gladness,  is, 
ror  them,  converted  into  a  banking-house,  wboso 


176  JAIL    COMRADES. 

vaults  are  filled  with  gold  and  silver;  (fearful  wit 
nesses  at  the  last  tribunal !)  and  Heaven  is  to  them_ 
a  brazen,  arid  vault,  to  which  no  breath  of  love  or 
gratitude  ascends  from  others  ;  which  no  prayer  of 
faith  or  hope  of  theirs  can  pierce. 


A  CLERK'S  TRIALS.  J77 


CHAPTER    XI. 
A-CLERK'S    TRIALS. 

"  Some  men  employ  one  portion  of  their  lives  to  make  the  other 
miserable." 

HARRY  DAVIS  had  a  much  harder  struggle  than 
appeared  by  his  letter  to  his  mother,  in  refusing 
Mrs.  Dawson's  gift  of  the  fifteen  dollars.  It  was  ac 
companied  by  a  note,  in  which,  with  the  most  delicate 
kindness,  she  urged  its  acceptance.  Harry  was  to  enter 
the  shop  the  next  day,  a  stranger  to  its  modes  of 
business,  under  a  master  who  had  not  made,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  a  favorable  impression  on  him,  —  with  new 
associates,  who  too  often  look  with  a  critical  eye  on 
a  new-comer.  To  all  this  was  to  be  added  the  dis 
advantage  of  appearing  in  a  garb  that  had  already 
excited  a  demonstration  of  displeasure  from  Holson 
and  sinister  looks  from  his  clerks.  If  it  be  consid 
ered  what  the  temptations  are  to  dress  in  a  city  under 


178  A  CLERK'S  TRIALS. 

ordinary  circumstances,  and  how  great  a  majority  of 
men  and  women,  young  and  old,  yield  to  them,  Har 
ry's  perseverance  in  his  resolution  must  be  allowed  to 
border  on  heroism.  It  must  bo  confessed  that  he  rose 
even  earlier  than  utual  tho  next  me  ruing;  that  he 
took  extraordinary  pains  in  polishing  his  boots ;  that 
he  arranged  his  hair  most  carefully ;  and  (he  can  afford 
to  have  this  little  weakness  told)  that  he  tied  and  retied, 
a  half  dozen  times,  his  plaid  cotton  neckcloth,  and  at 
last  turned  away  from  his  three-inch  glass,  saying, 
with  a  sigh,  "Hang  it!  I  cannot  make  it  set  like 
those  fellows'!  There's  no  use  in  trying." 

Peace  and  Plenty  were  not  larks  in  the  morning; 
but,  being  aware  that  Harry's  duty  was  to  open  the 
shop,  and  that  he  must  be  there  at  an  early  hour, 
they  kindly  prepared  his  breakfast  over  night;  and, 
though  he  protested  he  wanted  nothing  more  than  bread 
and  a  glass  of  water,  lie  found  then,  and  from  that 
time  henceforth,  prepared  neatly,  on  a  little  waiter, 
bread,  butter,  and  a  bit  of  cold  meat.  Our  motherly 
maidens  said  they  did  not  "  hold  to  setting  a  growing 
boy  to  work  on  bread  and  water." 


A  CLERK'S  TRIALS.  179 

We  pass  over  the  few  first  weeks  of  Harry's 
novitiate,  and  will  make  extracts  from  his  letters,  which 
will  best  tell  his  experience.  We  shall  be  com 
pelled  to  intersperse  the  extracts  with  a  few  notes,  as 
Harry  did  not  choose  to  communicate  to  his  mother 
all  the  discomforts  of  his  situation. 

After  having  been  a  month  at  work,  "  I  am  be 
ginning,"  he  says,  "to  feel  more  easy  in  the  harness, 
dear  mother.  If  it  yet  galls  in  some  places,  there  are 
others  that  have  already  become  callous,  and  do  not 
feel  it.  Eugene  Nevis  was  the  youngest  clerk,  when  I 
came  in,  and  I  became,  in  his  place,  prince  of  the 
lamps  and  knight  of  the  broom.  Eugene  is  a  gen 
tleman's  son,  and  a  real  gentleman  in  his  spirit; 
well-bred  and  kind-hearted.  From  the  first,  he  has 
treated  me  as  if  I  were  his  equal  in  every  way. 
He  even  said,  the  first  time  I  trimmed  the  lamps 
and  swept  the  shop,  'I  feel  how  much  you  have 
the  advantage  of  me,  by  knowing  how  to  do  these 
things.  When  I  began  sweeping,  I  blistered  my  hands ; 
and  I  had  a  regular  scolding  every  day  from  Holson 
and  the  head  clerks.  And,  as  to  the  lamps,  I  daubed 


180  A  CLERK'S  TRIALS. 

them,  and  spLled  the  oil,  and  my  poor  father  had 
to  pay  Holson  twenty  dollars  for  the  damage  I  oc 
casioned  the  goods.  I  don't  believe  it  amounted  to 
thai,  but  Holson  is  a  skin-flint  every  way.'  Dear 
mother,  I  thank  you  for  every  thing  you  taught  me. 
I  find  that  no  knowledge,  be  it  even  so  humble  as 
how  to  fill  a  lamp  well,  comes  amiss.  Little  did  I 
think,  when  I  swept  the  rooms  for  you  every  day  while 
you  were  nursing  Annie  through  her  long  fever,  that 
I  was  studying  for  a  New  York  clerkship.  The  clerks, 
for  the  most  part,  were  pleased  to  find  a  clean  shop 
and  bright  lamps,  and  they  treated  me  more  civilly 
than,  by  all  accounts,  they  usually  do  new-comers. 
One,  to  be  sure,  mean  fellow  asked  me  where  I  last 
served  as  chambermaid,  and  another  called  me  'Betty, 
and  so  on;  but  I  had  nerved  myself  to  bear  it,  and 
when  they  saw  that  I  was  tolerably  manly,  and  no 
'•Betty,'  they  changed  their  tone.  There  are  two  or 
\hree  among  them  (we  have  twelve  clerks)  whom  I  do  not 
at  all  like ;  they  are  ostentatious  and  mean,  ignorant 
and  arrogant.  They  have  precious  littie  instruction 
from  books,  and  not  one  tithe  of  the  knowledge  which 


A  CLERK'S  TRIALS.  181 

poor  Clapham  got  from  an  ever  wide-awake  observation 
of  nature.  Country  life  for  me,  mother.  Mr.  Edward 
Rice  is  our  head  clerk.  He  wears  a  gold  chain  and 
satin  waistcoat,  and  so  on,  and  has  a  very  genteel  air, 
which  Mr.  Holson  thinks  attracts  customers ;  under 
bred  ones  I  rather  think  it  does ;  but  the  coarse-grained 
wood  shows  through  the  high  varnish.  The  gold  chain 
notwithstanding,  Mr.  Edward  refused  yesterday  to  sub 
scribe  a  sixpence  for  a  sick  clerk  whom  Holson  had 
turned  off.  I  doubt  if  he  had  a  sixpence.  When  I 
put  down  half  a  dollar,  he  raised  his  eyebrows  till 
I  thought  they  would  roll  over  the  other  side,  and 
he  said,  '  Flush  for  a  freshman !  Straws  show  which 
way  the  wind  blows.'  I  knew  he  meant  to  intimate 
a  suspicion  against  me.  I  felt  hot.  I  did  not  speak, 
but  I  looked  him  steadily  in  the  eye ;  his  fell,  and 
I  walked  off  to  my  business,  satisfied  that  he  felt 
hotter  than  I.  But  I  like  even  him,  I  like  them  all, 
better  than  Holson  himself. 

"1  have  told  you,  my   dear  motner,  that  I  did  not 
like  Holson.    I  like  him  less  and  less  every  day.    Kind 


182  A  CLERK'S  TRIALS. 

Mrs  Dawsor  hns  been  blinded  by  his  intensely  obliging 
manner  to  customers.  If  she  could  see  behind  the 
scenes,  she  would  be  disgusted  with  his  selfishness, 
his  rapacity,  his  ill-temper,  and  tyranny.  To  me,  his 
sycophancy  to  his  customers,  and  his  mean  ways,  are 
most  revolting  —  sometimes  ludicrous.  If  a  lady  asks 
for  pmk  silk,  and  he  has  not  it,  he  tries  to  persuade  her 
that  red  is  pink,  or  that  cherry  is  more  fashionable 
than  pink,  or  crimson  richer,  or  scarlet  more  becoming  , 
and  the  worst  of  it  is,  he  does  persuade  half  the 
women.  Yesterday  he  was  outwitted.  A  lady  was 
looking  at  the  silks.  She  fixed  her  attention  on  one. 
Holson,  who  is  very  quick  at  detecting  a  lady's  fancies, 
thought  it  was  a  sure  nibble,  as  poor  Clapham  used  to 
sav ;  and,  as  usual,  he  set  to  work  to  obviate  whatever 
objections  she  might  raise  against  it.  I  must  say, 
ladies  are  pretty  ingenious  at  this.  *  Quite  a  charm 
ing  thing  that,'  he  said;  'just  opened.  I  bought  tho 
onl/  case  of  these  silks  in  this  city.'  'I  saw  tho 
same  pattern  at  Beck's,'  said  the  lady,  dryly.  'Ah, 
indeed !  did  you  ?  Possibly  Mr.  Beck  imports.'  He 
tried  another  bait,  often  successful.  'I  sold  a  dress 


A    CLERKS    TRIALS.  18M 

off  this  to  Miss  Liston.'  'Indeed!'  exclaimed  the  lady; 
'but  what  Miss  Liston?'  'Really,  I  don't  quite  know.' 
'Then  I  cannot  buy  it,  and  run  the  dreadful  risk  of 
its  being  Miss  Liston,  the  grocer's  daughter,  and  not 
Miss  Liston  of  the  Fifth  Avenue.  In  short,  Mr.  Holson, 
I  prefer  to  be  a  leader,  and  not  a  follower.' 

"  '  Ah  —  indeed  —  very  good ! '  said  the  fellow,  with 
one  of  his  odious  convulsive  little  titters.  '  Upon  my 
word,  I  think  this  piece  has  not  been  cut,  after  all. 
Rice,  it  was  quite  a  different  thing  Miss  Liston  bought  ? ' 
'Quite,'  said  Rice,  and  Miss  Liston  was  dismissed. 
'I  was  looking  for  a  fatigue  dress,'  said  the  lady, 
still  hovering  over  the  same  piece  of  silk.  'Just  the 
thing,  then,  madam ;  you  see  it  is  dust-color,  adapted 
for  riding  or  walking.'  'It  must  be  suitable  for  an 
evening  dress,'  persisted  the  lady.  '  Exactly,  madam. 
A  change  of  ribbons  and  a  lace  cape  —  we  have  loves 
just  opened  —  makes  it  an  evening  dress  at  once.' 

"'I  was  looking  for  a  summer  silk ' 

'"Just  the  thing,  ma'am.* 

"'But,'  she  said,  chopping  round  again,  'I  always 
buy  a  silk  for  wear.' 


184  A  CLERK'S  TRIALS. 

"'Of  course,  ma'am,  of  course.  You  see  this  is 
quite  solid.' 

"  *  How  do  you  think  it  will  do  for  travelling,  Mr. 
Uolson?'  'Admirably;  the  thing.  A  mantilla  over  it. 
—  we  have  them  at  all  prices  —  makes  it  quiet  at  once  !  ' 

"  Still  the  lady  did  not  come  to  the  desired  point, 
and  Holson,  hardly  concealing  his  impatience,  said, 
'What  objection  can  you  make  to  it,  ma'am?' 

" '  None  in  the  world,'  she  replied,  coolly  turning 
on  her  heel,  and  walking  out  of  the  shop,  'but  that 
it  does  not  suit  my  fancy!' 

"It  was  not  very  dignified  for  a  lady  to  play  at 
his  own  game  with  Holson;  but,  I  confess,  I  was 
pleased  to  see  him  beaten,  and  I  betrayed  my  satis 
faction  by  a  smile.  Holson  saw  it.  I  was  standing 
at  his  elbow ;  and  he  looked  like  a  thunder-cloud, 
and  he  has  been  more  testy  to  me  than  usual  ever 


"Yesterday,  an  intelligent  looking  gentleman  ca.me 
into  the  shop,  and  introduced  himself  to  Holson  as 
one  of  the  trustees  of  the  Mercantile  Library.  He  said, 


A  CLERK'S  TRIALS.  185 

looking  roind  upon  us,  that  he  had  taken  advantage 
of  a  rainy  day,  when  he  believed  he  should  not  in 
terrupt  us,  to  call  and  solicit  our  subscriptions,  or 
rather  to  offer  us  an  opportunity  to  subscribe  to  the 
*  Mercantile  Library  Association.'  He  presumed  most 
of  the  young  men  in  so  prosperous  an  establishment 
as  Mr.  Holson's  were  acquainted  with  the  institution ; 
but  those  that  were  not,  he  would  inform  that  it 
comprised  a  good  library,  carefully  selected,  and  a 
reading-room  warmed  and  lighted,  to  which  any  clerk 
could  obtain  access  every  evening  by  paying  an  initia 
tion  fee  of  one  dollar,  and  two  dollars  annual  subscrip 
tion.  This  also  entitles  him  to  draw  a  book  from  the 
library  every  week.  He  then  went  on  to  say  to 
Holson,  that  of  course  every  gentleman  at  the  head 
of  such  an  establishment  as  his,  must  feel  a  deep  re 
sponsibility  for  the  young  men  in  his  employment, 
and  under  his  guardianship;  that  he  must  feel  pain 
fully  anxious  to  shield  them  from  the  temptations 
incident  to  idle  hours  in  a  large  city;  and  to  pro 
vide  for  them  innocent  and  profitable  occupation. 

'The  retail    shop,'  he  said,   'was    often   the  threshold 
1C 


186  A  CLERK'S  TRIALS. 

to  a  higl  commercial  position,  and  it  was  very  im 
portant  tc  the  young  men  to  be  furnishing  their 
minds  with  the  knowledge  befitting  an  honorable 
station;  that  the  time  had  gone,  or  was  going  by, 
when  merchants  and  traders  were  looked  down  upon 
by  an  idle  class ;  that  our  merchants  were  our  princes, 
and  they  should  show  the  world  what  stuff  princes 
should  be  made  of.  He  said  that  every  American 
lad  should  know  what  was  requisite  to  make  a  man 
a  man;  fine  clothes  were  not;  fine  friends  were  not; 
but  probity  and  a  well-informed  mind  were.  The 
first  «very  merchant  would  be  careful  to  inculcate 
for  his  own  sake,  by  precept  and  example,  (mercy, 
mother!  he  did  not  know  Holson,)  and  to  promote 
the  last,  the  Mercantile  Library  had  been  instituted. 
He  hoped  the  young  men  would  be  as  eager  to 
subscribe  as  he  was  desirous  to  have  them.'  He 
first  presented  his  paper  to  poor  ZJmcon  Carey,  as  the 
boys  call  our  book-keeper  —  a  thin,  pale,  sad  man, 
both  bald  and  gray.  He  shook  his  head,  and  de 
clined  :  but  said,  respectfully,  *  I  have  neither  money 
nor  time,  sir;  if  had  I  would  subscribe,  if  it  were 


A  CLERK'S  TRIALS.  187 

only  for  the  sake  of  my  lame  son.'  The  stranger 
bowed,  and  passed  on  to  Mr.  Rice.  Rice  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  said  books  were  so  cheap  it  was 
not  worth  his  while.  'But,'  urged  the  stranger,  'you 
will  have  the  advantage  of  a  reading-room  open, 
lighted,  and  warmed  till  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening.' 

" '  A  gay  place  ! '  said  Rice,  with  a  contemptuous 
curl  of  his  lip.  I  never  saw  a  calmer  tempered  man 
than  this  gentleman;  he  did  not  seem  in  the  least  net 
tled.  Without  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  Rice's 
sneer,  he  said,  'There  is  a  greater  variety  of  reading, 
and  better  selected,  in  the  library  than  you  will  find  \ 
in  the  cheap  prints ;  and  besides,  these  cheap  prints  are 
a  tremendous  expense  to  your  eyes.'  Rice  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  shook  his  head,  and  Holson  said, 
*  Pass  on,  sir,  if  you  please  ;  pass  on.  The  boys  are 
wasting  time.'  Wasting  time !  Mother,  I  believe  Hoi- 
son,  thinks  time  was  given  to  spend  in  making  money, 
and  for  nothing  else.  As  it  proved,  the  gentleman's 
good  arguments,  though  lost  on  Rice,  had  their  effect 
on  the  rest  Six  out  of  the  twelve  set  down  their 
names;  I  among  the  six.  Now,  mother,  don't  you 


188  A  CLERK'S  TRIALS. 

and   Annie    stare    as    did  Holson    and    Edward    Rice. 
Let  Annie  cast  up  my  account. 

"Travelling  expenses, 50 

"  Subscription  to  the  sick   clerk,     50 

"Initiation    fee, 1  00 

"I  could  afford  to  subscribe.  I  have  three  dollars 
^emaining  of  my  five.  I  hope  to  earn  something  over 
and  above  my  salary  before  the  year  is  out;  but  if 
I  do  not,  I  have  enough  in  reserve  to  pay  my  library 
fees,  and  one  dollar  for  extras.  O,  one  thing  I  must 
not  forget  to  tell  you,  it  pleased  me  so  much.  I 
signed  last,  and  was  at  the  desk,  returning  the  pen  to 
Mr.  Carey,  when  the  gentleman  said  to  him,  'Put  your 
name  down.  I  will  see  to  the  fees  for  this  year  at 
least,  and  I  dare  say  this  young  man'  (looking  at  me) 
'  will  take  the  trouble  to  draw  out  the  books  for  your 
lame  boy.'  Mr.  Carey  smiled,  —  the  first  smile  I  have 
seen  on  his  face  since  I  have  been  in  Holson's  shop, 
and  he  looked  cheerful  all  day.  It  is  pleasant  for 
those  who  have  money  to  go  round  buying  smiles 
and  cheerfulness  for  those  whose  fate  is  hard,  like  poor 
Carey's.  Don't  you  think  so,  mother?" 


A  CLERK'S  TRIALS.  180 

Harry  had  many  vexations  to  endure,  of  which  he 
made  no  report  to  his  mother.  Those  clerks,  —  at  their 
head  Edward  Rice,  —  who  took  airs  on  themselves,  put 
all  odd  jobs  on  Harry,  and  he  was  sometimes  kept  at 
the  shop  till  nine,  ten,  and  eleven  o'clock,  though  the 
nominal  hour  of  closing  it  was  eight.  He  was  patient, 
because  he  was  manly,  and  determined  not  to  fret 
about  trifles.  Trifles  he  called  them;  but  they  de 
prived  him  of  his  greatest  enjoyment  —  his  reading,  and 
his  pleasant  social  hours  at  his  happy  home.  A  much 
more  serious  trouble  to  him  was  the  continual  displeas 
ure  and  fault-finding  of  Holson.  "  It's  all  your  fault," 
he  said,  "Davis,  that  Eugene  Nevis  has  left  the  shop. 
Not  that  I  care  for  the  rascal;  I  can  get  twenty  better 
clerks  in  his  place;  but  it's  your  (we  omit  the  word 

with  which  he  graced  it)  country  notions.  His 

relations  were  good  customers,  and  now  they  have  all 
quit,  for  he  has  told  his  own  story." 

Nevis  did  tell  his  own  story,  which  was,  that,  stimu 
lated  by  Harry  Davis's  example,  he  had  absolutely 
refused  to  make  the  false  representations  which  Hol 
son  insisted  on  as  the  common  course  of  business 


190  A  CLERK'S  TRIALS. 

That  common  course  was,  to  say  to  a  lady,  "You 
had  better  buy  this  dress  now.  ma'am ;  it's  the  last  we 
have  of  it;"  when,  perhaps,  there  were  half  a  dozen 
pieces  of  the  same  on  the  shelf;  or,  "I  sold  this 
muslin  yesterday  for  five  shillings,  which  I  now  offei 
to  you  for  four."  "You  will  not  find  another  velvet  so 
cheap  as  this  in  New  York,"  &c.,  &c. ;  and  uniformly 
to  assure  the  buyers  that  every  article  was  offered 
below  cost.  A  lady  was  one  day  looking  at  an  ex 
pensive  muslin,  and  said  to  Harry,  "I  doubt  thb 
color.  Do  you  know  if  it  washes  ? " 

"No,  it  does  not,  ma'am." 

She  looked  surprised  at  his  unexpected  frankness, 
and  smiled. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  and  left  the  shop.  Hoi- 
son  was  engaged  with  a  customer,  but  Harry  perceived 
that  he  overheard  and  oversaw  the  transaction.  He 
took  the  first  opportunity  of  abusing  Harry  outrageously. 
He  would  have  struck  him,  if  he  had  dared.  Soon 
after,  another  customer  came,  to  whom  Holson  him 
self  showed  the  same  muslin.  She  asked  the  same 
troublesome  question.  "  O,  I'll  warrant  it,"  said  Hoi- 


A  CLERK'S  TRIALS.  191 

son.  Thereupon  the  lady  took  it,  and,  on  the  faith 
of  Mr.  Holson's  warranty,  brought  it  back  the  next 
day.  Holson  said,  "Of  course  he  would  take  it  back; 
but  the  lady  must  take  something  else  out  of  his 
shop.  She  had  no  occasion  for  any  thing  else.  She 
wanted  nothing  but  a  muslin  gown.  There  was  no 
redress  without  more  trouble  than  it  was  worth,  and 
she  retained  tfie  fading  warranted  muslin. 


192  THE    BOOK-KEEPER. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
THE    BOOK-KEEPER. 
"Deep  malice  makes  too  deep  incision." 

THE  spring  business  had  begun,  and  Harry  was 
more  than  ever  confined  to  the  shop.  He  be 
came  pale,  and  every  day  paler  and  thinner.  He 
dreamed  of  country  breezes,  swelling  buds,  early 
flowers,  and  the  full  spring  chorus  of  birds  ;  but, 
instead  of  all  this,  he  .  was  waked  by  the  harsh 
sound  of  the  first  wheel  rolling  over  the  pavement 
He  hurried  to  the  shop,  not  to  leave  it,  at  night, 
till  he  could  scarcely  drag  his  weary  limbs  home. 
His  kind  hostesses  became  anxious  about  him.  Miss 
Peace  advised  a  blue  pill  taken  twice  a  week,  as 
"rulable  in  the  spring;"  and  Plenty,  when  Harry- 
shook  his  head  at  this,  suggested  that  camomile  tea, 
three  times  a  day,  would  strengthen  him.  But  Harry 


THE    BOOK-KEEPER.  193 

insisted  that  nothing  would  do  this,  if  not  the  good 
bread  and  meat  of  their  table.  How  and  when  he 
should  pay  for  this  bread  and  meat,  now  wore  upon 
him  more  than  his  work  and  confinement.  When 
his  quarter's  salary  became  due,  Holson  had  put  him 
off;  and,  when  Harry  repeated  his  request  for  his 
dues,  and  urged  the  necessity  of  paying  his  board, 
Holson  told  him  that  if  he  did  not  wait  till  it  was 
convenient  to  pay  him,  he  might  whistle  for  his 
money ;  that  he  could  get  clerks  enough  without 
wages.  Unfortunately,  Harry  had  no  written  -contract ; 
and  Mrs.  Dawson,  the  only  person  whose  testimony 
could  aid  him,  had  suddenly  gone  to  the  West  Indies 
for  health.  No  word  or  sign  from  the  good  sisters 
intimated  that  Harry  was  behindhand ;  but  he  was 
too  honest,  too  manly,  to  continue  to  be  a  charge  to 
them,  and  he  resolved,  if  Holson  did  not  pay  him  at 
the  end  of  the  six  months,  which  would  now  be  in  two 
days,  he  would  leave  his  employment,  and  get  another, 
even  if  it  were  domestic  service,  that  would  enable 
him  to  pay  his  debt.  His  painful  impatience  was 

increased  by   hearing    old    Mrs.   Bland    say   to    ]\fary 
17 


194  THE    BOOK-KEEPER. 

Hale,  "I  never  saw  your  aunts  wear  their  old  bo  A 
nets  out  on  Easter  Sunday  before.  What  is  the 
reason?"  "Why,"  said  Mary,  "I  am  sure,  Mrs. 
Bland,  aunts'  bonnets  look  very  decent."  "  Yes, 
decent;  but,  in  twenty  years,  I  have  never  known 
them  go  to  church,  on  Easter  Sunday,  with  their  old 
bonnets."  "The  reason  is,  grandmother,"  said  blind 

Nannie   Bland "  Hush,  Nannie !  "  said  Mary  ;  but 

the  little  girl  either  did  not  hear  or  did  not  heed. 
"Aunty  Peace  says  that  they  have  not  any  money 
till  Harry  pays  them."  "  O  Nannie ! "  said  Mary, 
deprecatingly.  Her  eyes  met  Harry's.  He  smiled 
but  it  was  a  smile  of  the  deepest  mortification. 
Mary  understood  it,  and  felt  tears  of  sympathy 
coming,  and  she  left  the  room.  Harry  followed  her, 
and  explained  his  embarrassment ;  and  Mary  begged 
him  not  to  be  troubled,  and  said,  in  their  kind  spirit, 
that  her  aunts  would  rather  never  have  new  bonnets 
than  he  should  leave  them.  This  was  quite  true, 
and  this  might  have  been  the  consequence  to  them, 
for  they  had  scarcely  an  unappropriated  shilling. 
Their  income  was  one  thousand  dollars.  With  thia 


THE    BOOK-KEEPER.  195 

they  maintained  in  independence  their  comfortable 
little  establishment.  They  boarded  their  old  friend, 
widow  Bland,  for  just  enough  to  cover  the  expense, 
"  throwing  in,"  as  they  termed  it,  "  blind  Nannie  ;  she 
being  such  an  interesting  child,  it  was  only  a  pleas 
ure  ;  and  she  ate  like  a  Canary."  They  supported 
their  three  orphan  nieces  ;  many  an  old  friend  was 
welcomed  to  their  hospitable  table.  They  rented  a 
pew  in  the  church  their  parents  attended  before  them, 
took  a  weekly  paper,  a  religious  magazine,  and  sub 
scribed  to  two  charitable  societies.  Had  they  not 
more  enjoyment  from  money  Avith  their  one  thousand 
dollars,  than  some  rich  men  with  their  millions  ? 

Truly,  contentment  with   godliness   is   great   gain. 

Harry's  affairs  were  approaching  a  crisis.  Till 
this  should  be  past,  he  had  resolved  to  make  no 
mention  of  his  anxieties  to  his  mother. 

There  was  one  person  in  Holson's  shop,  a  far 
greater  sufferer  than  Harry.  This  was  Carey,  the 
book-keeper.  He  was  an  amiable  man,  rather  ineffi 
cient  from  protracted  ill  health,  and  timid  from  con 
tinued  nisfortun^s.  His  wife  was  a  feeble  woman, 


196  THE    BOOK-KEEPER. 

and  his  children  sickly.  His  whole  life  had  been 
under  a  dreary,  leaden  sky.  He  had  ceased  to  hope, 
but  always  looked  for  something  worse. 

At  a  period  of  uncommon  pressure  to  poor  Carey, 
and  of  elated  prosperity  to  Holson,  he  had  lent  his 
book-keeper  a  few  hundred  dollars  ;  and,  from  that 
time,  he  had  kept  him  under  the  harrow.  When 
ever  he  had  any  purpose  to  gain,  he  would  threaten 
to  withhold  his  salary,  or  to  seize  his  furniture  to 
satisfy  the  debt  For  two  or  three  weeks,  Harry 
had  observed  that  Carey  was  unusually  dejected ;  that 
he  was  every  evening  behindhand  with  his  books  ; 
and,  one  evening,  after  watching  him  going  over  and 
over  the  same  column  of  figures,  and  then  leaning 
dejectedly  on  his  elbow,  he  said,  modestly,  to  Carey, 
"You  do  not  seem  quite  well,  sir.  I  am  a  pretty 
good  accountant;  perhaps  I  can  assist  you." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  replied  Carey ;  "  perhaps 
you  can.  I  have  made  some  mistake  here.  I  can 
not  detect  it.  I  believe  I  am  losing  my  head." 

"O,  no,"  said  Harry,  cheerfully;  "go  and  sit  on 
that  old  sofa  at  the  end  of  the  shop,  and  rest  your 


THE    BOOK-KEEPER.  197 

head.  Rest  is  all  it  wants,  and  that  it  wants  enough." 
Pcor  Carey  went,  stiff  and  languid,  and  with  but 
half  a  man's  life  in  him.  Harry  soon  detected  the 
error,  and  rectified  the  figures. 

"It  is  all  right,  Mr.  Carey,"  he  said.  "Can  I 
do  any  thing  else?" 

"O,  thank  you,  yes.  If  you  will  look  at  the  two 
last  pages  of  last  week's  accounts,  you  will  see  they 
are  not  footed.  But  it  will  keep  you  too  late ;  you 
too  are  tired." 

"Not  sick-tired,  as  you  are  ;  not  at  all  too  tired 
to  do  this.  You  take  a  little  doze,  and  I  will  wake 
you  when  it's  done." 

So  Harry  went  to  work  with  a  clear  head  and 
willing  heart ;  and,  in  an  hour's  time,  the  accounts, 
that  were  the  despair  of  the  poor  old  book-keeper, 
were  adjusted,  and  he  went  behind  the  screen  to 
wake  Carey.  He  was  not  sleeping  ;  he  was  too  care 
worn  and  anxious  to  sleep.  The  tears  came  in  his 
eyes  when  he  thanked  Harry.  "I  do  not  know  your 
match,"  he  said ;  "  you  are  one  by  yourself,  Harry 
Dans."  But  there  seemed  no  sense  of  relief;  the 


198  THE    BOOK-KEEPER. 

spring1  of  his  mind  was  broken.  After  a  minute,  ho 
rose,  walked  slowly  to  the  desk,  locked  it,  and  left 
the  shop  in  complete  absence  of  mind,  without  even 
bidding  Harry  good  night. 

The  next  day,  Harry's  salary  fell  due,  and  he  took 
an  opportunity  of  reminding  Holson  of  it  Holson 
slid  it  was  not  convenient  to  pay  it,  and  he  must 
wait.  Harry  said,  manfully,  he  could  not  wait.  Hol 
son  replied,  he  should  "  wait  and  do  nothing  else." 

Harry  then  said,  calmly,  "I  shall  leave  your  ser 
vice  this  evening,  Mr.  Holson."  Holson  stared. 

"  And  a  pretty  box  you'll  be  in,"  he  said. 
"There's  no  other  such  fool  as  I,  to  engage  to  give 
a  raw  boy  wages.  I'll  give  you  no  character." 

Harry,  though  a  modest  young  man,  was  not  to  be 
bullied  out  of  his  rights,  or  his  self-possession. 

"  No  character  that  you  could  give  would  be  of 
service  to  me,  Mr.  Holson,"  he  said,  calmly ;  "  but  I 
have  friends." 

"  Who,  who,  who  ? "  cried  Holson,  angrily  mter- 
ruDtinjr  him. 

"The   good,  honest  people  I  live  with." 


THE    BOOK-KEEPER.  109 

"  He  I   he  !   he  !   the  old  maids  ! " 

"  And,"  resumed  Harry,  "  Mr.  Nevis,  —  Eugene 
Ne vis's  father." 

"What,  Mr.  Russel  Nevis?" 

"The  same — father  of  the  clerk  who  left  you 
after  I  came.  Perhaps  you  have  forgotten  him." 

Holson  bit  his  lips  with  vexation.  "  You  know 
Mr.  Russel  Nevis !  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it" 

"  I  have  dined  with  him  every  Sunday  for  the  last 
month,  and  he  has  invited  me  to  continue  to  do  so, 
till  he  goes  to  the  country." 

"  A  pretty  figure  you  must  cut  at  Mr.  Ne  vis's 
table,"  said  Holson,  his  eyes  reconnoitring  Harry's 
dress  insultingly.  Harry  stood  his  ground  unflinch 
ingly.  Holson's  temper  was  boiling  ;  but,  with  all 
his  blustering,  his  passion,  and  his  love  of  tyranny, 
he  was  wary  and  cautious.  He  was  conscious  that 
Mr.  Nevis  was  a  powerful  friend,  and  that  he  had  no 
good  opinion  of  him.  He  was  certain  Harry  spoke 
pure  truth,  for  he  had  never  been  able,  by  menace 
or  persuasion,  to  induce  him  to  deviate  from  it  ; 
and,  more  than  all,  he  was  aware  that  Harry  was  the 


200  THE    BOOK-KEEPER. 

best  clerk  in  his  shop,  the  most  solicitous  to  perform 
his  duty  to  him,  and  most  acceptable  to  his  customers  ; 
and  tlierefore,  when  Harry  said  again,  decidedly,  "If 
you  do  not  pay  me  my  salary  to-day,  you  have  vio 
lated  your  contract,  and  I  am  released  from  mine, 
and  shall  leave  you."  Holson,  without  saying  another 
word,  gave  him  a  draft  for  the  fifty  dollars.  A  knave 
is  no  match  for  an  honest  man,  if  he  be  capable. 

"  Mr.  Holson,"  said  Harry,  in  the  same  firm  voice 
he  had  sustained  through  the  interview,  "  I  consider 
myself  released  from  my  engagement  with  you,  by 
your  failure  to  perform  your  part  of  the  contract. 
You  have  subjected  me  to  mortification,  and  my 
friends  to  inconvenience,  by  failing  to  pay  me  when 
my  money  was  due.  I  shall  consult  my  friend,  Mr. 
Nevis,  and  shall  be  governed  by  his  advice,  either  to 
remain  with  you  the  remaining  six  months,  or  to  leave 
you  on  Monday." 

Holson  stared  at  Harry  as  if  he  were  something  ho 
did  not  comprehend.  His  anger  rose,  but  he  felt  that, 
if  he  gave  way  to  it,  it  would  be  like  the  wave  beating 
against  a  rock,  and,  muttering  a  curse,  he  turned  away 


THE    BOOK-KEEPER,  201 

What  gave  such  power  to  a  poor  count: y  boy? 
High  and  right  aims.  Not  an  aim  at  riches  or  ex 
ternal  distinctions  of  any  sort,  but  an  aim  to  be  true 
in  ail  the  relations  of  life  ;  to  act  up  to  the  con 
victions  of  his  due  ;  to  resist  temptations,  small  and 
great;  and  to  develop  his  faculties  by  all  the  means 
allotted  to  him.  Thus  fortified  with  the  true  spirit 
of  a  man,  a  knave  could  not  oppress,  nor  a  flashy 
clerk  look  him  out  of  countenance. 

It  was  Saturday,  bad  weather,  and  a  dull  day  in 
the  shop.  Holson  was  more  irritable  than  usual, 
abusing  some  of  the  clerks,  and  fretting  at  all. 
Harry  observed  him  repeatedly  speaking  earnestly 
to  Carey,  and  that  Carey  made  no  reply,  and  looked 
even  more  wretched,  more  ill,  more  dejected,  than 
ever  before. 

"  Poor  deacon ! "  said  one  of  the  clerks,  jogging 
Harry's  elbow ;  "  do  look  at  him,  rubbing  his  forehead, 
and  his  eye  wandering  about  as  if  he  saw  nothing; 
I  should  not  wonder  if  he  werf  to  cut  his  throat" 

"  Nor  should  I,"  said  Harry,  with  a  sigh  of  deep 
compassion.  He  turned,  and  saw  Holson  at  his  elbow, 


202  THE    BOOK-KEEPER. 

and  was  sure,  from  a  certain  conscious  look,  that  ne 
had  heard  him. 

Saturday  evening  was  busier  than  any  other  even 
ing  of  the  week.  Harry  had  got  every  thing  in 
order,  and  waited  an  hour  for  Carey  to  be  done. 
He  then  asked  him  if  he  could  assist  him.  "  No," 
said  Carey,  "nobody  can  help  me.  My  poor  wife  ! 
My  poor  children ! "  He  laid  his  head  down  on  his 
desk,  and  gave  way  to  a  flood  of  tears. 

"O  Mr.  Carey,"  said  Harry,  "you  are  tired  out  — 
you  are  used  up." 

Carey  shook  his  head.      "  It  is  not  that,"  he  said. 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is,  then,"  said  Harry ;  "  or  tell 
some  other  friend.  My  mother  always  says  tnere  is 
no  burden  that  can't  be  lightened  by  a  friend's  help 
ing  you  bear  it." 

"  Vou  are  kind."  Carey  raised  his  head,  and  wiped 
away  his  tears.  "I  have  got  to  be  a  mere  child. 
There's  no  use  in  struggling  any  longer." 

"Do  go  home  now,  Mr.  Carey,  and  let  me  come 
and  see  you  to-morrow.* 

"  No,    I   cannot  go   home    yet ;   but   you   must   go. 


THE    BOOK-KEEPER.  203 

Leave  the  key,  and  come  to-morrow  to  my  he  use  and 
get  it  It  always  does  poor  Johnny  good  to  see  you. 
It  is  too  late  to  do  me  good."  Harry  saw  he  was 
not  to  be  persuaded,  and  he  took  his  hat  and  bade 
him  good  night. 

Soon  after,  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Carey 
opened  it,  and  Holson  came  in  ;  and,  as  soon  as 
Carey  resumed  his  seat,  he  said,  as  if  continuing  a 
previous  conversation,  "  It's  all  before  you  now  — 
choose  !  Break  with  me,  and  see  who  will  employ 
you  Go  round  and  ask  for  a  place  with  your  bent 
body,  and  blue  lips,  and  hands  shaking  like  the 
palsy." 

"It's  serving  you,  and  serving  you  faithfully,  Mr. 
Holson,  that's  bent  my  body  and  made  my  hands 
shake." 

"  Have   not   I    paid   you   for   it  ?  —  lent  you  money 
too  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Carey,  speaking  with  a  little  more 
spirit ;"""  and  that's  been  the  chain  that  bound  me 
down  to  this  desk,  and  you  knew  it  It  may  be  as 
well  broken  now  as  ever." 


204  THE    BOOK-KEEPER. 

"And  you,  and  your  wife,  and  your  children,  starv 
ing  in  a  bunch  —  hey,  Carey  ? "  Holson  spoke  in  a 
softer  and  more  persuasive  tone,  as  he  added,  "Don't 
be  a  fool.  I  say  again,  do  what  I  want  of  you ; 
there  is  no  risk  to  you,  —  no  risk,  and  great  gain. 
I  will  give  you  up  your  note  to  me,  and  a  check 
for  two  hundred  dollars  ! "  There  was  no  answer  from 
Carey  but  a  deep-drawn  sigh  ;  and  Holson  went  on 
to  particularize  exactly  what  he  wanted  done,  which 
was  an  alteration  of  certain  entries  in  the  accounts, 
in  order  to  cover  a  fraudulent  transaction  of  his,  which 
was  on  the  eve  of  detection.  The  change  could  only 
be  made  by  the  hand  that  had  kept  the  accounts. 
<lLet  it  be  well  done,  and  soon  done,  Carey,"  he 
concluded.  "  Promise  me,  only  promise  me,  that  you 
will  come  here  to-morrow  and  do  it.  I  will  trust  to 
your  word,  and  give  you  up,  on  the  spot,  your  note 
and  the  check.  Yes,  I'll  make  the  check  three 
hundred,  and  trust  entirely  to  your  truth,  if  you  give 
me  the  promise." 

"  To  my   truth,  Mr.   Holson  !     Then  there's    some- 
Jiing  left,  thank   God  !     I    have    not   worked    and    suf- 


THE    BOOK-KEEPER.  205 

fercd  like  a  dog  for  nothing ! "  He  laughed  /oud 
and  unnaturally,  and  then,  recovering  himself,  he  /stood 
up,  and  speaking  courageously,  and  with  fresh  life,  he 
said,  "  I'll  not  do  it  —  never !  If  all  else  is  gone, 
truth  and  honesty  are  left.  We  may  starve.  God's 
will  be  done.  I  have  decided,  Mr.  Holson." 

"Holson  walked  up  and  down  the  shop  hurriedly. 
He  then  returned  to  the  desk,  and  said,  in  a  deter 
mined  voice,  "I  have  decided,  too.  I  did  not  come 
here,  to-night,  till  I  had  fully  revolved  this  subject, 
and  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do.  I  knew  you 
were  a  fool,  and  I  thought  you  might  be  obstinate. 
I  prepared  two  strings  to  my  bow.  One  was  put  into 
my  head  by  overhearing  something  that  passed  between 
John  Bell  and  that  cursed  fellow  Davis.  They  both 
thought  your  mind  shaken,  and  that  you  were  on  the 
point  of  committing  suicide.  If  you  are  found  dead 
at  this  desk  to-morrow  morning,  I  shall  summon  these 
boys  before  the  inquest,  and  the  verdict  will  surely  be, 
*  Throat  cut  by  his  own  hand ! '  Here  is  a  knife,  and 
I  swear  I'll  finish  you,  unless  you  promise  me  instantly 
—  not  one  breath's  delay  —  yes,  or  no  ?  " 


206  THE    BOOK-KEEPER. 

Holson  was  a  desperate  man.  Ruin  —  utter  dis 
grace  —  stared  him  in  the  face,  and  disappointment, 
rage,  and  vengeance,  hurried  him  on.  Carey's  knees 
knocked  together.  "  Yes,  or  no  ?  "  reiterated  Holson. 

Carey's  tongue  was  parched  with  fear  and  horror. 
He  tried  to  utter  "  no ; "  he  could  not  move  his 
lips. 

"  Speak ! "   cried  Holson,  holding  up  the  knife. 

God  gave  his  servant  strength  ;  he  said,  audibly 
and  clearly,  "No!" 

Holson  seized  Carey  by  the  throat.  He  gasped ; 
he  could  not  make  a  sound.  At  that  moment, 
Harry  Davis  sprang  on  Holson,  grasped  him  by  the 
collar,  and  released  Carey,  who  sank,  fainting,  to  the 
floor.  Holson  staggered  back  to  the  wall,  stunned 
with  the  horror  of  detection,  powerless  and  silent 
There  was  a  glass  of  water  on  the  desk ;  Harry 
dashed  it  in  Carey's  face,  and  reanimated  him  with  a 
voice  of  encouragement.  "  Fear  nothing,"  he  said ; 
"the  danger  is  past.  Come  with  me;  lean  on  me.  I 
will  see  you  safe  home."  After  somo  effort,  Carey 
rallied  and  left  the  shop  with  Harry. 


THE    BOOK-KEEPER.  207 

It  was  probable  that  Holson  had  expected  to  in 
timidate  Carey  into  compliance,  and  had  not  deliber 
ately  planned  his  murder ;  but  to  what  extremity 
he  might  have  been  urged  by  his  savage  and  roused 
passion,  if  Harry  had  not  interposed,  it  is  impossible 
to  say. 

It  may  be  remembered  that  Harry,  after  offering 
his  assistance  to  Carey  in  settling  his  accounts,  bade 
him  good  night.  He  was  so  struck  with  the  expres 
sion  of  despair  on  the  poor  man's  countenance,  that, 
instead  of  going  away,  he  turned,  unperceived,  and 
stole  back  to  a  sofa,  screened  from  observation  by  a 
curtain,  so  arranged  that  Holson  might  take  his  lunch 
there  when  detained  at  the  shop  by  a  pressure  of 
business.  There  Trovidence  stationed  Harry  as  a 
guardian  angel  to  poor  Carey. 


208  LIFE    IN    JAIL A    SURPRISE 


CHAPTER    XIII. 
LIFE    IN   JAIL  — A    SURPRISE. 

"  My  son,  thou  art  yet  to  be  tried  upon  the  earth,  and  to  be  exercised 
in  many  things." 

WE  left  Clapham  reposing  with  the  peace  of  good 
resolutions.  They  gained  force  from  the  steady 
ing  effect  of  sleep.  The  next  morning  Hunt  and 
Slocum  renewed  their  solicitations.  They  did  not  care 
for  him,  or  his  companionship ;  but  they  coveted  tne  two 
or  three  dollars  which  he  had  earned  in  the  ring  trade, 
and  they  believed  he  was  already  in  their  toils.  Clap- 
ham  returned  a  civil  but  firm  refusal  to  their  soft 
words,  and  they  desisted,  Slocum  saying  to  Hunt, 
"Never  mind  now;  a  week  or  two  more  will  limber 
him.  Nothing  like  jail  life  to  take  vartu  starch  out 
of  folks." 

It  was  just  after  this   last  resistance,  and   Clapham 


LIFE    IN    JAIL  A    SURPRISE.  209 

Eccretly  felt  that  it  was  a  reward  for  it,  that  he  espied, 
among  tho  rubbish  swept  into  a  corner  of  the  room, 
the  fragments  of  a  pamphlet  giving  an  account  of  the 
disasters  and  wreck  of  the  ship  Commerce,  on  her  re 
turn  from  New  Spain  to  the  port  of  New  York. 
Clapham  had  had  one  winter's  schooling,  during  one 
of  his  father's  long  absences  from  home,  and  he  had 
then  learned  to  read  and  spell  words  of  two  syllables. 
By  an  hour's  effort,  he  made  out  the  title.  It  struck 
on  his  memory,  and  recalled  many  adventures  he  had 
heard  his  father  relate  of  a  certain  ship  Commerce  in 
which  he  had  been  wrecked  when  a  child.  Here, 
Clapham  thought,  was  a  chance  of  learning  to  read,  if 
he  would  work  hard;  and,  stimulated  by  his  curiosity 
to  ascertain  if  the  pamphlet  really  contained  the  stories 
recounted  by  his  father,  he  set  to  the  task.  The  print 
was  small  and  blurred,  and,  in  many  places,  rendered 
quite  illegible  by  dirt-stains.  The  first  two  pages  were 
merely  prefatory,  and  filled  with  commercial  and  nau- 
ti;al  terms,  which  greatly  increased  Clapham's  difficulty. 
lie  persevered,  however,  and  in  one  week  he  read 

these  two  pages.     And,  though  many  a  time  his  head 
18 


210  LIFE    IN    JAIL A    SURPRISE. 

ached,  and  his  eyes  were  misty,  it  was  b}  far  the 
shortest  and  pleasantest  week  he  had  passed  since 
Deleau  left  the  jail.  The  next  week,  he  went  on 
better ;  and  now  he  came  to  the  incidents,  in  a  different 
form,  of  which  his  father  had  retained  and  related  his 
indistinct  impressions.  The  name  of  Felix  Hale, 
second  mate,  frequently  recurred.  His  daring  in  va 
rious  exploits  was  noted ;  his  fair  dealing  and  generosi 
ty  to  the  crew  were  dwelt  on ;  and  the  particulars  of 
his  death,  which  occurred  during  a  contest  with  a 
privateersman,  in  defending  a  woman,  the  only  passen 
ger  in  the  ship,  were  minutely  given.  The  account  of 
him  concluded  as  follows  :  "  Thus,  by  a  fatal  stab  in 
the  back,  we  lost  the  best  man  in  the  ship  —  honest 
to  his  last  farthing ;  true  to  his  last  word :  brave  as 
Julius  Csesar ;  and  tender-hearted  as  a  woman.  He  had 
married  in  New  Spain,  and  his  wife  died  there,  leaving 
a  son,  whom  he  was  bringing  to  New  York.  When 
the  Commerce  was  wrecked,  and  we  escaped  by  night, 
in  the  long-boat,  this  Jittle  chap  was  asleep  below  with 
old  Norman  Dunn,  who  had  adopted  him,  and  given 
him  his  name.  The  boat  was  already  overloaded,  and, 


LIFE    IN    JAIL A    SURPRISE.  211 

as  the  man  was  old,  and  always  drunk  when  ashore, 
and  the  boy  would  be  better  off  in  Abraham's  bosom, 
all  hands  agreed  not  to  wake  them.  The  Commerce 
was  never  heard  of  after." 

Clapham  spelt  through  these  last  sentences,  his 
heart  throbbing  as  if  it  would  leap  from  his  bosom. 
He  recalled  distinctly  Norman's  graphic  description  of 
awaking  one  morning,  and  finding  himself  alone  on  the 
wreck  of  the  vessel  with  his  father,  (the  old  sailor  who 
adopted  him,)  and  his  saying  that,  after  a  few  days'  heav 
ing  about,  they  were  taken  off  and  carried  to  England. 
He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  real  father,  with  whom 
he  had  had  brief  intercourse.  The  rough  old  sailor  took 
him  from  port  to  port,  and  finally,  dying  at  sea,  the 
boy  was  sent  to  a  small  seaport  on  Long  Island  Sound, 
in  Connecticut.  There,  at  the  age  of  eleven  years,  a 
solitary  and  dropped  link  from  the  clrain  of  humanity, 
he  was  found  by  the  overseers  of  tTie  poor,  and  sent 
'»  school.  He  could  not  bear  its  restraints,  and  ran 
away  into  the  interior;  and  from  that  time  he  led  a 
roving  and  lawless  life. 

To   return  to  Clapham.     He  was    assured    that  this 


212  LIFE    IN    JAIL A    SURPRISE. 

Felix  Hale  was  his  grandfather;  that  there  was  good 
blood  in  his  veins ;  that  his  grandfather  was  a  true 
and  honest  man,  honored  and  loved.  It  was  a  proud 
and  happy  day  for  the  poor  boy,  and  many  and  many 
a  time  he  said  over  to  himself,  "  Felix  Male's  blood 
is  in  my  veins.  I  know  it  is.  I  always  did  hate  to 
lie  and  steal,  like  poison." 

Again  and  again  he  read  over  the  fragmentary 
leaves.  He  had  them  every  word  by  heart.  After 
that,  the  reading  naturally  became  tiresome.  Again  he 
besieged  Plum  to  give  him  something  to  do,  and  again 
was  surlily  repulsed.  Again  he  besought  a  book  of 
the  jailer,  and  was  again  denied.  Two  weeks  more  of 
idleness  passed  away.  His  health  suffered.  The  room, 
never  ventilated,  was  noisome.  His  head  continually 
ached,  or  had  a  heavy,  confused  feeling,  worse  than 
pain. 

Slocum  and  Hunt  never  forgot  Clapham's  money. 
Their  appetite  for  rum  and  tobacco  reminded  them  of 
it ;  and  one  unhappy  day  for  Clapham,  when  he  was 
looking  paler  and  more  haggard  fc'ian  usual,'  his  eyes 
half  closed,  and  his  neglected  leaves  lying  beside  him. 


LIFE    IN    JAIL A    SURPRISE.  213 

Slocum  cal  ed  to  him,  "  Come,  Clap,  draw  up,  and  look 
on;  there's  no  harm  in  that,  my  man.  We'll  be 
frindly,  the  same  as  if  you'd  never  snubbed  us." 

"  I  may  as  well ! "  thought  Clapham ;  "  I  shall  die 
lying  here,  hearing  nothing,  seeing  nothing,  nothing  to 
do.  I  have  tried  my  best."  He  had  tried  manfully; 
but  no  one  should  ever  cease  trying.  He  drew  near 
to  them.  It  was  this  first  movement  that  led  to  the 
evil  that  followed.  "Resist  the  devil  and  he  will  flee 
from  you."  But  resist  to  the  end.  Clapham  looked 
over  that  game,  and  another,  and  another.  He  began, 
unconsciously,  to  feel  an  interest,  and,  as  soon  as  he 
perfectly  comprehended  the  game,  to  hope  that  Hunt, 
whom  he  disliked  less  than  Slocum,  would  win.  There 
was  usually  a  small  bet  pending.  The  pies,  nuts, 
tobacco,  and  cakes,  received  from  their  outside  friends, 
supplied  the  means  of  making  them. 

The  second  day,  he  answered  to  their  invitation 
more  promptly.  "I  got  no  harm  yesterday,"  he  thought, 
"and  why  should  I  to-day?  It  does  make  the  time 


pass." 


"Y<u    are   a  smart  lad,   Clap,"    said   Slocum,  after 


214  LIFE    IN    JAIL A    SURPRISE. 

Clapham  had  been  looking  on  an  hour  or  two.  "I'll 
bet  you,  Hunt  he  could  play  a  game  now,  without  a  miss." 

"He  play!  Your  granny,  as  well,"  replied  Hunt, 
with  an  air  of  great  contempt. 

"Well,  I'll  bet  on  him.     Try,  just  once,  Clap." 

Clapham,  provoked  by  Hunt  doubting  his  capacity, 
took  the  cards. 

"What's  the  use  of  betting  with  me?"  said  Hunt; 
"I've  got  nothing,  and  less.  What  do  you  say,  Clap, 
for  our  side.  Will  you  venture  six  cents  against  Slo's 
six  apples  ?  You've  the  chink,  you  know.  Come,  don't 
hold  back,  don't  be  tight.  We  are  all,  but  you,  as 
poor  &*  church  mice.  Well,  if  you  are  so  close,  twelve 
apples  ,o  your  six  cents." 

"1  don't  care  for  the  six  cents,"  said  Clapham. 
He  hesitated  from  a  foolish  dread  of  their  ridicule, 
if  he  told  them  he  did  not  like  to  bet.  He  had  sense 
enough  to  fear  that  betting  would  draw  him  in  to  plajr 
more  with  them.  "  But  never  mind ;  it  is  but  once,' 
he  thought ;  'just  to  see  if  I  can  play  without  a  miss ; 
and  I  don't  want  them  to  think  me  mean."  He  took 
the  cards. 


LIFE    IN    JAIL A    SURPRISE.  215 

Ah,  Clapham,  if  you  had  but  thought  then,  "The 
tiling  is  to  do  right,  and  then  it  matters  not  what  oth 
ers  say  or  think."  They  had  caught  him.  Clapham 
took  the  cards;  they  exchanged  winks,  and  he  pro 
ceeded  to  give  his  whole  mind  to  the  game.  He 
played  it  right,  and  won  it,  and  won  the  apples  into 
the  bargain.  He  felt  the  pleasure  of  excitement.  It 
was  a  new  world  to  him.  No  more  consciousness  of 
headache;  no  more  drowsiness,  nor  dulness.  He  con 
tinued  playing  till  it  was  so  dark  he  could  not  see  a 
spot  on  the  cards.  Slocum  and  Hunt  were  good- 
natured  all  day.  After  they  had  instructed  Clapham 
in  "All  Fours,"  they  taught  him  "Loo;"  and  Clapham 
dreamed  all  night  of  "Flusher,"  and  "  Blaser,"  of 
"  Great  Loo  "  and  "  Little  Loo ; "  and  when  he  arose  in 
the  morning,  he  was  as  eager  to  go  to  the  cards  as 
they  were  to  have  him. 

Betting  was  now  a  regular  thing  with  every  game. 
Clapham  had  resolved  not  to  stake  more  than  six  cei 
at  a  time.      That,  he   thought,  was  a   small  risk;   and, 
as  they  won  his  money,  they  staked  cash  against  cash. 
Clapham   lost   oflener  than   he   won;   but  he   was   not 


216  LIFE    IN    JAIL A    SLRPRISE. 

aware  ho-n  much  the  luck  run  against  him,  till  towards 
the  close  ~jf  the  week,  when,  on  counting  over  his 
money,  he  found  but  fifty  cents  remaining. 

He  had  scarcely  won  a  ga.me  that  day.  A  sus 
picion  of  foul  play  dawned  upon  him.  He  began  to 
realize  that  gaming  was  a  bad  business  for  him,  and, 
like  many  older  gamblers,  he  resolved  that,  as  soon  as 
he  had  won  back  his  money,  or  detected  the  fraud  he 
suspected,  he  would  give  up  playing.  "  I  must,  at  any 
rate,"  he  said  to  himself,  "hold  on  till  I  find  out  if 
they  cheat  me."  They  had  gone  on  cheating  so  suc 
cessfully  that  they  were  not  on  their  guard.  Game 
followed  game,  and  on  each  Clapham  lost  his  six 
pence.  He  became  almost  sure  that  he  perceived 
where  the  fraud  was.  His  heart  beat  so  that  he  was 
afraid  they  would  perceive  it;  but  he  kept  himself 
apparently  cool  till  he  was  certain,  and  then,  striking 
Slocum's  cards  out  of  his  hands,  he  exclaimed,  "  It's  no 
play  You've  cheated  in  the  deal.  I  saw  you!" 

"  You   lie  !  "  cried  Slocum. 

"  Let  him  lie ! "  said  Hunt.  "  Here  is  his  last  six 
pence.  We've  wound  him  up." 


LIFE    IN    JAIL A    SURPRISE.  217 

"You've  cheatad  me  out  of  my  money,  and  I'll 
get  it  again,"  said  Clapham,  irritated  by  his  losses, 
by  their  cheating,  and  still  more  by  their  triumph. 

"Take  that,"  said  Slocum,  spitting  on  him;  "that's 
all  you'll  get  again."  Clapham  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and  struck  Slocum  a  blow  in  the  face  that  made  the 
blood  spout  from  his  nose.  Enraged,  he  flew  at 
Clapham.  Clapham  did  not  give  an  inch,  and,  striking 
blow  after  blow,  they  came  to  the  floor  together. 
There  was  a  general  uproar  in  the  room.  The  card- 
table  was  overthrown ;  a  jug  of  rum  was  overturned 
and  spilled;  the  cards  were  scattered;  pennies  and 
apples  rolled  over  the  filthy  floor.  One  man  cried 
out  that  it  was  not  fair  play.  Man  against  boy 
Hunt  declared  no  one  should  interfere ;  and  such  was 
the  hubbub  that  no  one  was  conscious  that  the  door 
was  opened,  and  that  the  jailer  entered,  followed  by  a 
young  man,  till  the  visitor  said,  in  a  thrilling  voice, 
"  Clapham  Dunn ! "  and  Clapham  sprang  from  Slocum 
to  his  feet.  His  flushed  face  turned  deadly  pale,  and, 
staggering  to  the  wall,  he  groaned  out,  "  O  Harry 
Davis!" 


218  LIF.K    IN    JAIL — A    SURPRISE. 

His  eye  met  Harry's.  He  turned  away  his  face, 
and  leaned  against  the  iron  bars  of  the  window. 
Harry  did  not  see  the  hot  tears  that  streamed  over  his 
cheeks.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  signs  of  his  degra 
dation  and  ruin.  His  long,  dark,  curling  hair  was  a 
snarled  mass,  gray  with  lint  and  dust;  his  begrimed 
skin  had  that  sallow,  dingy,  parchment  hue  infallibly 
contracted  in  a  neglected  prison.  His  clothes,  none 
of  the  best  when  he  left  his  wretched  home,  had 
not  been  since  changed,  and  were  now  black,  greasy, 
stiff,  and  ragged  at  all  points.  The  mountain  friend, 
the  boy  of  Rhigi's  lovely  woods,  with  his  shining  curls 
and  ruddy  cheeks,  and  voice  ringing  out  clear  as  the 
birds  that  sang  around  him,  the  favorite  of  "little 
Lucy,"  passed,  for  one  moment,  in  vision  before  Harry. 
His  eye  ran  over  the  disgusting  apartment;  his  head 
turned,  and  he  became  sick  and  faint  It  was  partly 
the  fetid  air  of  the  room,  but  more  the  shock  of 
his  disappointment.  He  turned  back  into  the  passage, 
and  the  iailer  relocked  the  door.  The  sound  struck 
like  a  sentence  of  final  judgment  on  Clapham's  ear, 
and  he  fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 


DYING    CONFESSION.  219 


CHAPTER    XIV. 
A  DYING   CONFESSION. 

"Justice,  alas!  has  given  him  o'er, 
And  mercy's  day  is  gone." 

WE  are  compelled  to  recede  three  weeks  in  our 
story,  to  the  moment  of  Harry's  exit,  with  the 
noor  book-keeper,  from  Holson's  shop.  Harry  half 
supoorted,  half  dragged  him  to  his  melancholy  home 
—  an  upper  story  of  a  small  house  in  Mulberry  Street 
His  wife,  sick  in  body  and  feeble  in  mind,  was  inca 
pable  of  assisting  him  ;  his  children,  excepting  the 
lame  boy,  too  young,  and  he  too  weak  to  help  him 
self.  So  Harry  was  compelled  to  remain  till  late  the 
next  morning.  Carey  was  in  a  state  of  stupor  which 
the  physician  said  threatened  paralysis.  That  only 
could  be  averted  by  care  ;  and  care  he  had,  unsparing 
care,  from  Harry.  He  brightened  about  twelve,  and 
Harry  hastened  home  to  render  an  account  of  himself. 


220  A    DYING   CONFESSION. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Mary  Hale,  who  was  evi 
dently  on  the  watch. 

"  O  Harry ! "  she  exclaimtd,  "  where  have  you 
been?  Aunts  will  be  so  glad!" 

"And  you  did  not  care  at  all,  Mary,  what  became 
of  me?" 

"  Harry  Davis  !  "  she  exclaimed,  reproachfully ;  and 
she  ran,  blushing,  away  to  proclaim  his  return  to 
aunts  Peace  and  Plenty. 

Such  was  their  anxiety  at  Harry's  unaccountable 
absence,  that  neither  of  the  good  ladies  had  gone  to 
church  —  "a  thing,"  as  they  said,  "  that  had  not  hap 
pened  before  in  their  lifetime." 

Harry's  next  movement  was  to  call  on  Mr.  Nevis, 
and  confide  to  him  the  scene  in  Holson's  shop.  Mr 
Nevis  immediately  proceeded  to  Holson's,  accompanied 
by  a  police  officer,  but  Holson  was  gone.  He  had 
absconded  during  the  night,  (having  first  burned  his 
books,)  with  such  of  his  effects  as  he  could  take  with 
him.  The  next  day,  his  gay  shop  windows  were 
closed,  the  door  barred,  and  the  ominous  words,  "To 
let,"  advertised  the  public  that  the  incessant  impor- 


A    DYING    CONFESSION.  221 

tnmties,  the  false  showings,  and  petty  frauds  of  John 
Holson  were  at  an  end;  that  the  most  laborious  in 
dustry,  without  integrity,  will  not  prosper;  that,  in 
short,  dishonesty  is  the  worst  policy. 

We    give  another  extract  from  a  letter  of  Harry's. 

"It  seems  to  me,  dear  mother,  that  I  have  lived  a 
year  in  the  last  fortnight.  On  the  very  Monday  that 
I  sent  you  an  account  of  the  upshot  at  Holson's,  Mr. 
Nevis  obtained  the  promise  of  an  excellent  situation 
for  me  with  Messrs.  James  Bent  &  Co.,  where  his 
son,  my  friend,  already  is.  Mr.  Bent  is  respected  as 
a  man  of  strict  integrity,  and  every  part  of  his  estab 
lishment  is  well  conducted ;  and  I  am  to  have  a  salary 
of  $150.  Only  imagine  how  rich  I  shall  be!  'It 
never  rains,  but  it  pours ! '  Coming  out  of  Mr.  Bent's, 
who  should  I  meet  but  Mr.  Lyman!  He  has  more 
work  on  hand  than  he  can  do,  —  making  plans  and 
drawings  for  the  first  architect  in  the  city,  —  and  he 
wanted  me  to  help  him.  Ne  ~cr  was  any  thing  more 
opportune.  The  place  I  am  to  have  at  Mr.  Bent's 
will  not  be  vacant  till  next  month,  and  now  I  can  be 


222  A    DYING    CONFESSION. 

earning  something ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  moti  er,  I  do 
need  a  little  fitting  up  for  summer." 

"Dear  mother,  I  am  really  enjoying  myself  now, 
as  much  as  I  think  one  can  ever  enjoy  in  a  city.  I 
am  afraid  I  shall  never  feel  at  home  here,  but  I  really 
am  happy  now.  I  am  drawing  all  day,  and  all  the 
evening.  I  get  a  book  from  the  Mercantile  Library, 
tnd  Mary  Hale  reads  aloud.  We  are  reading  noAv 
Irving's  Columbus,  —  one  of  the  most  charming  books 
ever  written, — and  Mary's  reading  is  like  setting  it 
to  music.  Mother,  her  voice  is  the  sweetest  you  ever 
heard.  It  reminds  me  of  little  Lucy's.  And  when 
she  sits  under  the  lamp,  the  light  shining  on  her 
beautiful  brown  hair  and  white  forehead,  I  —  I  can 
hardly  keep  my  eyes  on  my  drawing.  Mary  has  re 
ceived  her  education  at  one  of  the  public  schools,  and 
you  would  be  astonished  to  know  how  much  she  has 
acquired,  and  how  well.  Her  good  aunts  are  not  fond 
of  reading;  they  stay  in  the  little  front  parlor,  where 
their  tongues  go  at  both  ends;  but,  bless  them!  they 
never  speak  an  evil  or  an  unkind  word.  O  d  Mrs, 


A    DYING    CONFESSION.  223 

Bland,  who  loves  a  book  above  every  thing,  sits  in  the 
back  parlor  with  us  and  listens,  and  teaches  her  poor 
little  blind  grandchild  to  sew  and  knit.  Would  you 
not  like  to  look  in  upon  us,  dear  mother?  I  shcu'd 
be  perfectly  happy  if  I  were  out  of  a  city.  If  I 
were,  dear  mother,  where  I  could  see  Mount  Rhigi, 
and  hear  the  sound  of  a  brook ;  and  if  —  O,  what 
an  if !  —  if  Clapham  was  what  he  seemed  to  us  when 
little  Lucy  died,  and  was  out  of  that  old  jail." 

EXTRACT  FROM  A  LETTER  FROM  HARRY'S  MOTHER. 

"Your  present,  my  dear  son,  was  very  acceptable, 
as  a  proof  of  your  abiding  and  ever-thoughtful  love  ; 
but  do  not  send  me  any  thing  more  at  present. 
Keep  your  earnings  for  your  summer's  outfit.  We 
want  for  nothing.  Thanks  to  a  kind  Providence,  my 
health  is  good,  and  Annie's.  There  is  never  lack 
of  work  for  willing  nands ;  and  our  wants,  except 
for  your  afflicted  father,  are  small.  His  cough  is 
severe,  and  he  declines  daily,  so  that  the  doctor  says 
he  should  not  be  surprised  if  he  dropped  away  at 
any  minute.  His  appetite  continues  remarkably.  I 


2*24  A    DYING    CONFESSION. 

might  find  it  difficult  to  satisfy  it,  but  our  kind 
neighbors  send  in  daily  of  their  best.  We  have 
plenty  of  fresh.  To-day,  dear  old  Mrs.  Allen  sent  a 
quarter  of  a  roaster,  and  your  father  ate  nearly  tlio 
whole  of  it  You  know  he  was  always  remarkably 
fond  of  pig.  Our  neighbors  never  let  him  be  out  of 
custards,  pies,  and  preserves.  You  know,  Harry,  I 

never  liked  to  call  on  my  neighbors   for  watchers  in 

• 

sickness,  and  think  that,  in  most  cases,  it's  much 
better  doing  without  them  ;  but  father  feels  different. 
He  likes  company,  he  says,  when  he  is  awake,  and  I 
am  no  talker.  He  is  able  yet  to  engage  his  own 
watchers.  He  borrows  the  sheriff's  old  horse,  and 
jogs  round  after  them.  I  don't  oppose,  though  I 
sometimes  fear  he  will  die  on  the  road  ;  but  it  serves 
to  divert  him. 

"  O  Harry,  you  will  have  feelings  when  you  read 
what  I  have  now  to  write  to  you  !  Last  evening, 
about  nine,  Norman  Dunn  was  found  lying  on  the 
ground,  at  the  tavern  steps.  At  first,  they  supposed 
hs  was  drunk ;  but  it  proved  that  he  was  sick,  worn 


A    DYING    CONFESSION:  225 

out  with  travelling  afoot,  and,  indeed,  nigh  unto  death. 
They  got  him  on  to  a  bed,  and,  as  soon  as  he  re 
vived  he  asked  to  have  me  sent  for.  O  Harry,  he 
•was  an  awful  sight  to  behold,  with  his  long,  black 
beard,  and  livid  face,  and  swollen  eyes.  I  supposed 
he  wanted  to  hear  about  Massy's  death ;  so  I  told 
him  she  did  not  suffer  for  any  thing,  and  how  the 
selectmen  had  her  brought  down  to  the  village,  and 
she  had  good  watchers  every  night,  and  I  was  <vith 
her  at  the  last,  for  the  sake  of  Clapham.  He  did 
not  give  me  the  least  attention,  but  kept  moving 
and  worrying  till  I  mentioned  Clapham ;  then  he  rose 
right  up,  and  said,  '  Stop  there  ;  don't  talk  about 

Massy  ;    she's  dead,  and   gone   to   the  d 1,  for  what 

I  care.'  (Only  think,  Harry,  what  a  hardened  sinner !) 
'But  Clapham!  it's  for  his  sake  I  have  dragged  here 
more  dead  than  alive  ;  and,  while  breath  lasts,  let  me 
tell  you  how  I  wronged  him.  Your  own  boy,  Harry, 
wo3  not  better  than  my  boy ;  nor  so  good ;  for  Clapham 
had  the  devil  always  at  his  elbow,  and  was  good  in  spite 
of  it  I  was  the  devil  to  him  —  I,  his  father ! ' " 

Mrs.   Davis   then  went  on  to   write  the   particulars 


'226  A    DYING    CONFESSION. 

Norman  gave  of  his  having  forced  poor  Clapham,  in 
his  childhood,  to  accompany  him  on  his  marauding 
expeditions  among  hen-roosts  and  clothes-lines.  He 
then  told  the  whole  story  of  the  robbery,  —  every 
particular,  every  word,  with  which  our  readers  are 
already  acquainted,  —  and,  in  conclusion,  said,  "  And 
I  let  him  be  accused  —  my  own  child,  and  such  a 
boy  —  and  be  taken  off  to  jail,  just  because  I  could  not 
bear  shutting  up  out  of  the  fresh  air.  But  I  have 
tried  to  right  him  at  last  —  I  have.  I've  walked  forty 
miles  since  I  thought  every  step  would  be  my  last. 
Now  let  them  send  for  Squire  Avery,  and  you  tell 
the  story,  and  I'll  swear  to  it,  and  then  I'm  done." 

The  magistrate  was  immediately  sent  for,  a  dep 
osition  made,  and  the  oath  administered  to  Norman. 
After  that,  he  sank  away,  and  died  before  morning, 
without  sign  of  repentance  towards  God.  Unhappy 
man! 

Mrs.  Davis's  letter  thus  concluded  :  "  Only  think, 
my  dear  son,  how  we,  his  best  friends,  and  his  true 
friends,  have  wronged  this  poor  boy.  I  always  had 
feelings  for  hiui.  He  was  somehow  bound  up  in  my 


A    DYING    CONFESSION.  227 

heart  with  little  Lucy  ;  and  I  have  daily  remembered 
him  in  my  prayers  Annie  is  the  happiest  girl  you 
ever  saw.  She  cried  for  joy.  But  we  must  do  some 
thing  more  than  feel,  or  pray,  or  cry,  Harry.  Every 
one  says  that  steps  should  be  taken  for  Clapham; 
but  ho  one  takes  them.  What  is  every  body's  busi 
ness  is  nobody's.  Now,  my  son,  as  you  have  a  week 
before  you  enter  on  your  new  clerkship,  had  you  not 
oest  come  home  and  see  about  getting  up  a  petition 
to  the  governor  for  Clapham's  pardon  ?  I  know  it 
will  be  an  expense,  and  neither  you  nor  I  have  spare 
shillings.  But  sometimes  we  must  not  count  the  cost 
Annie  and  I  have  laid  by  a  few  dollars  against  a 
caii  for  mourning,  that  must  soon  come;  that  is  at 
your  service  ;  and  you,  my  son,  can  wear  your  old 
hat  till  you  can  earn  a  new  one ;  and  so,  among 
us,  we  can  make  it  out,  and  neither  borrow  nor  beg. 
But  I  leave  you  to  decide.'7 

Harry  did  decide,  without  hesitation  ;  and  the  very 
next  day  found  him  at  the  door  of  the  prison  in  L <. 


THE    REUNION 


CHAPTER    XV. 
THE   REUNION. 

*•  Sorrow  endureth  for  a  night,  but  joy  cometh  in  the  morning." 


WHEN  Harry,  after  his  sudden   retreat  from  C! 
ham's  presence,   recovered  his    self-possession, 
"How  long,"  he  asked  the  jailer,  "has  Clapham  Dunn 
been  in  this  way  ?  " 

"What  way?" 

"Why,  playing  cards,  and  drinking,  and  quar 
relling?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  They  mostly  fall  to  it 
as  soon  as  they  have  a  chance.  I  never  noticed  the 
lad  in  partic'lar,  but  they  are  all  birds  of  a  feather; 
and  I  can  tell  you  there's  no  partic'lar  credit  in 
keeping  up  an  acquaintance  with  them,  in  partic'lar, 
for  young  folks  that  haven't  any  settled  character  in 
partic'lar"  The  jailer  accompanied  his  advice  with 


THE    REUNION.  229 

a    knowing  wink,  which    did    not    make  it  the    more 
pleasing  to   Harry. 

"I  have  no  fears,"  he  said,  "about  my  character 
suffering." 

"  O,  I  dare  say  not.  Young  folks  are  never  afeard 
of  nothing ;  but  see,  if  you  lay  dirty  clothes  and  clean 
together,  the  dirty  clothes  don't  get  any  the  cleaner 
that  ever  I  heard  of,  and  the  clean  ones  get  rather 
frouzy.  You  can't  teach  me  nothing  about  these  kind 
of  cattle ;  after  they  once  get  under  my  lock  and  key, 
there's  an  end  on  'em." 

"  Most  likely,"  thought  Harry,  "  and  that  is  a  reason 
why  they  should  be  got  from  under  your  lock  and 
key  as  soon  as  possible.  I  still  wish  to  see  this 
Clapham  Dunn,"  he  said. 

"Well,  you  must  take  it  out  in  wishing.  I  can't 
no  how  attend  to  you  this  afternoon.  Saturdays  is 
busy  days.  I  must  be  going." 

"  I  will  come  again,  then,  to-morrow  morning,  early." 

"You  need  not  trouble  yourself  to  come  so  very 
early,"  said  the  jailer,  rudely.  Sunday  is  a  day  of 
rest,  and  I  don'*  turn  out  with  the  sun." 


230  THE    REUNION. 

"is  (his  the  man,"  thought  Harry,  as  he  left  the 
prison,  "selected  to  take  charge  of  the  sick  —  'the 
sick  and  in  prison,'  —  the  worst  sickness  —  sickness  of 
the  soul?" 

On  the  whole,  the  delay  was  no  disadvantage, 
except  that  it  left  poor  Clapham  pining  and  despair 
ing,  and  believing  that  the  last  ray  of  hope  had 
vanished  from  him.  Harry  went  to  look  after  a  cer 
tain  Mr.  Norton,  a  very  flourishing  carpenter  in  L , 

a  distant  relative  of  his  mother.  Mr.  Norton  received 
him  most  kindly,  and  insisted  on  his  staying  at  his 
house ;  and,  during  the  evening,  they  had  much  con 
versation  that  had  an  important  influence  on  Harry's 
destiny.  Mr.  Norton  fully  sympathized  with  Harry's 
hopes,  and  encouraged  them.  "Such  a  boy  as  you 
describe  this  Clapham,"  he  said,  "  who  so  early  re 
sisted  bad  influences,  cannot  have  been  ruined  by  a 
few  months  in  jail,  though  he  may  have  lost  ground. 
It  is  a  sad  place,  I  believe." 

"  "lave  you  never  been  in  it,  sir?"  asked  Harry 
with  some  surprise. 

"No,  I    never  have."      He   was    silent    for  a  mo- 


THE    REUNION.  231 

ment,  and  then  added,  "To  my  shame  I  confess  it, 
I  never  have." 

At  eight  o'clock,  the  next  morning,  Harry  could 
restrain  his  impatience  no  longer.  He  was  again  at 
the  jail.  After  he  had  waited  a  long  while,  the  jailer 
came,  gaping  and  grumbling.  "  It  was  trouble  enough," 
he  said,  "  to  take  care  of  the  rascals,  without  wait 
ing  on  their  comrades." 

Harry,  without  noticing  his  ill-humor,  asked  if  he 
could  speak  with  Clapham  alone. 

"I  guess,"  he  answered,  "it  will  be  a  job  to  get 
him  to  speak  at  all.  One  of  the  fellows  told  me 
he  had  not  spoke  nor  ate  since  you  was  here.  Them 
that  drinks  and  fights  always  have  their  sulky  turns." 

Harry  again  asked  if  he  could  see  Clapham  alone, 
and  the  jailer  said,  "yes,  there  were  lock-up  places 
enough  empty,  but  he  should  not  trust  him  with  his  old 
mate  without  turning  the  key."  At  this  moment,  Mr. 
Norton,  who  had  followed  Harry,  entered. 

"You  are  quite  mistaken  in  this  young  man, 
Patten,"  he  said;  "h-  is  a  relation  of  mine.  Give 
him  a  decent  room  to  see  his  acquaintance  in,  and 


232  THE    REUNION. 

while  he  is  talking  with  him,  let  me  go  in  to  see 
your  prisoners." 

The  jailer's  manner  changed  instantly.  He  went 
eagerly  for  Clapham,  and,  shaking  him,  he  said,  "  Come, 
wake  up,  uncover  your  face." 

"  Do  let  me  be,"  replied  Clapham,  drawing  the 
coverlet  again  over  his  face. 

"  You  do  look  ghastly ! "  said  the  jailer.  He  did. 
His  face  was  pale,  his  lips  were  blue,  and  the  blood 
had  mingled  with  the  tears  and  run  over  his  face, 
neck,  and  hands.  "You  are  a  scarecrow,"  continued 
the  jailer;  "but  come;  they're  wanting  you  out  here." 

"Who?  who  wants  me?"  cried  the  poor  boy,  now 
throwing  off  the  cover  and  starting  up. 

"That  youngster   that  was   here   last   night." 

"  Has  he  come  ?  Does  he  want  to  speak  with  me  ?  " 
exclaimed  Clapham,  springing  to  his  feet,  and  towards 
the  door;  and  when  it  was  opened,  he  said  not  a 
word,  but  he  looked  Harry  steadily  in  the  face,  and 
his  soul  was  in  his  eye.  Harry  grasped  his  hand, 
and  Mr.  Norton  said,  almost  aloud,  "There's  good 
in  the  Rhig:  boy!" 


THE    REUNION. 

Two  hours  passed  before  Clapham  and  Harry  again 
separated;  and  in  that  time  Clapham  related  all  that 
he  had  suffered,  thought,  and  felt,  since  they  parted 
on  the  mournful  day  of  little  Lucy's  burial.  He  did 
not  try  to  palliate  his  fault  in  the  jail.  It  was  Harry 
that  thought  of  the  palliation.  When  Harry  spoke 
of  the  death  of  Clapliam's  parents,  a  deep  gloom  over 
shadowed  him,  and  he  was  silent  and  downcast  for 
a  few  moments  ;  then  a  sudden  gleam  lit  up  his  face, 
and  he  said,  "But,  Harry,  I  have  some  honest  blood 
in  my  veins,  and  my  poor  father,  perhaps  —  perhaps 
if  he  had  been  cared  for  as  I  have  —  if  he  had  had 
a  Harry  Davis  for  a  friend,  he  might  have  turned  out 
very  different."  Clapham  then  related  how  he  had 
discovered  his  progenitor.  "So  you  see,  Harry,"  he 
concluded,  "I  have  a  fair  name  to  begin  upon  — 
Hale.  Hale  is  a  good  name,  isn't  it?" 

"  Hale ! "  exclaimed  Harry,  his  face  lighting  up 
with  an  expression  Clapham  did  not  quite  understand; 
Hale  is  the  pleasantest  sounding  name  in  the  world." 
Mary  Hale,  if  he  had  spoken  the  whole  truth,  he  should 

have  said. 

20 


934  THE    REUNION. 

When  the  boys  parted,  Clapham  said,  "  O  Harry, 
if  all  the  land  on  Rhigi  had  been  given  to  me,  and 
leave  to  fish  and  hunt  with  you  for  life,  I  should 
not  be  so  happy  as  I  now  am." 

"Almost  as  happy  as  I  was,  Clapham,"  replied 
Harry,  "when  I  received  my  mother's  letter  contain 
ing  the  account,  from  your  father's  lips,  of  the  rob 
bery.  I  always  felt  that  you  had  no  heart  in  it; 
but  to  know  that  I  could  prove  my  faith  by  your 
works  was  joy  beyofid  telling." 

At  this  moment,  the  cup  of  both  boys  was  brim 
ming  with  well-earned  happiness. 

Before  Harry  left  L ,  it  was  settled  between 

him  and  Mr.  Norton  that  Deleau  should  be  written 
to  for  a  testimonial  of  Clapham's  good  conduct  while 
Deleau  was  in  the  jail.  Very  favorable  testimony  Mr. 
Norton  had  already  obtained  from  a  sharp  questioning 
of  Hunt,  Slocum,  and  Plum.  Prepared  with  all  this 
evidence  in  Clapham's  favor,  and  with  the  document 
made  from  Norman  Dunn's  dying  confession,  Mr.  Nor 
ton  did  not  doubt  he  should  obtain  an  immediate 
pardon  from  the  governor.  Ten  days  after,  he  wrote 


THE    REUNION.  285 

to  Harry,  "My  dear  young  friend,  the  thing  is  done. 
The  governoi  cheerfully  granted  the  pardon,  and 
Clapham  Hale  is  now  my  indented  apprentice,  and  a 
member  of  my  family.  You  might,  but  few  others 
would,  know  the  Rhigi  boy  in  his  new  Sunday,  or 
even  his  working-day,  suit.  'He  shows  blood,'  as  they 
say,  —  the  blood  of  his  grandfather,  the  high-minded 
Felix  Hale.  We  must  confess  it  was  somewhat  cor 
rupted  in  the  veins  of  Norman  Dunn.  How  much 
of  the  sin  of  such  corruption  lies  at  the  door  of  those 
who  neglect  their  duty  to  orphan  and  outcast  chil 
dren,  is  a  fearful  question. 

"My  dear  cousin,  —  I  am  proud  to  call  you  so, — 
Harry  Davis,  your  visit  to  me  has  done  me,  as  I 
humbly  hope,  great  good.  I  had  lived  here  ten  years, 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  this  jail,  and  never  seen 
the  inside  of  it.  I  call  myself  a  Christian.  I  am 
a  professor.  I  pray  daily  in  my  family  for  those 
who  are  in  the  gall  of  bitterness  and  bond  of  iniqui- 
t)7,  and  yet  I  have  never,  till  you  came  here,  lifted 
one  of  my  fingers  to  loosen  these  bonds.  I  pray  that 
missionaiies,  preaching  the  good  news  of  salvation, 


236  THE    REUNION. 

may  be  sent  to  the  whole  human  family.  I  subscribe 
to  charitable  societies,  —  and  so  I  should,  as  God  has 
prospered  me,  —  and  yet  I  have  not  done  the  duty 
nearest  to  me.  If  I  had,  or  if  my  Christian  neighbors 
had,  the  scenes  of  filth,  idleness,  and  iniquity  in  that 
jail  would  never  have  existed  to  witness  against  us. 
I  have  taken  measures  to  have  that  rascally  jailer 
removed.  They  talk  of  a  disinfecting  fluid.  There 
should  be  a  moral  disinfection  in  the  character  of  the 
man  who  has  the  care  of  the  tenants  of  a  jail  —  morally 
diseased  creatures. 

"  Clapham  sends  a  world  of  love  to  you  and  yours. 
He  has  already  begun  with  his  evening  school,  and 
so  earnestly  that  I  am  sure  he  will  soon  be  able 
to  write  for  himself. 

"  How  much  I  wish  that,  instead  of  the  uncertain 
life  of  a  city  merchant,  you  had  chosen  to  come  and 
learn  with  me  my  good  trade,  which  will  thrive  as 
long  as  men  live  in  houses.  But  wherever  you  are, 
God  bless  you,  as  He  ever  does  His  faithful  servants. 
"  Truly,  your  obliged  friend, 

"  BENJAMIN  NORTON.* 


A    DECISION.  237 


CHAPTER    XVI. 
A   DECISION. 

"  My  good  angel  held  the  scales.  Ambition  and  Wealth  were  ?n 
one  scale,  Moderation  and  Contentment  in  the  other.  Ambition  and 
Wealth  kicked  the  beam." 

EXTRACTS  FROM  HARRY  DAVIS'S  LETTERS. 

C(  ~|~-Y  EAR  MOTHER  :  It  is  now  three  months  since 
JL-S  I  have  been  with  Mr.  Bent ;  and,  excepting 
my  poor  father's  death,  life  has  been  all  smooth  sail 
ing  with  me.  You  have,  been  getting  on  so  nicely ! 
Clapham  Hale  giving  such  complete  satisfaction  to 
Mr.  Norton,  and  you  and  Annie  —  as  appears  by 
your  last  letter  —  surprised  with  his  improved  appear 
ance  and  manly  bearing.  Does  he  not  seem  like  one 
of  us  ? 

<;  I  have  reason  every  day  to  feel  grateful  to  Mr. 
Nevis  for  my  situation  at  Mr.  Bent's.  He  is  a  model 
in  his  department  of  mercantile  life.  He  requires 


238  A    DECISION. 

of  his  clerks  a  strict  performance  c*1  their  duty. 
They  must  be  up  to  the  mark  ;  and  there  is  the 
strictest  supervision  of  them.  They  sign  a  contract 
not  to  go  to  the  theatre,  nor  to  any  public  places 
of  amusement,  excepting  during  their  holidays,  when, 
he  says,  their  parents  or  guardians  take  the  respon 
sibility  from  him.  They  all  have  salaries  in  propor 
tion  to  their  capacities  for  business.  Mr.  Bent  is 
quite  as  exact  in  his  duties  to  them  as  in  his  ic- 
quirements  from  them.  He  watches  over  them  like 
a  parent.  If  a  lad  is  drooping,  he  gives  him  a 
holiday.  If  he  detects  a  fault,  he  gives  a  secret  and 
kind  admonition,  as  if  it  were  his  own  child  he  was 
dealing  with.  He  sees  himself  to  the  young  men 
having  eligible  boarding  places  ;  he  permits  no  extra 
hours,  or  over-work,  unless  it  is  inevitable  ;  he  pays 
all  the  salaries  on  the  first  of  each  month  ;  he  sub 
scribes  himself,  for  the  clerks  who  themselves  are 
rcit  able  to  subscribe,  to  the  Mercantile  Library;  he 
gives  a  kind  word  of  approbation  where  it  is  due, 
and  I  think  never  blames  undeservedly ;  he  permits 
no  puffing  of  the  goods,  us  false  shows  of  any  sort; 


A    DECISION.  239 

we  must  be  assiduous  to  his  customers,  civil  and 
devoted,  but  never  importunate  ;  there  is  but  one 
price  in  his  shop.  In  short,  dear  mother,  he  spares 
no  pains  to  give  us  upright  characters,  and  gentle 
manly  deportments,  and  thus  prepares  us  for  an  hon 
orable  career.  He  does  well  the  duty  nearest  to  him." 

"  My  evenings  are  passed  so  pleasantly,  mother ! 
Mr.  Lyman  has  been  ill  in  bed  for  the  last  month, 
and  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  making  some  return 
to  him  for  all  his  kindness  to  me,  by  finishing,  gra 
tuitously,  the  drawing  of  plans  he  had  begun.  I  am 
always  delighted  when  I  have  drawing,  for  then 
Mary  Hale  reads  to  me.  You  cannot  imagine  how 
curious  she  is  to  see  Clapham,  ever  since  she  dis 
covered  that  he  was  a  distant  relation  of  hers.  Not 
BO  very  distant  either,  as  that  Mr.  Felix  Hale  was 
a  brother  of  her  grandfather ;  so  they  are  second 
cousins.  'Blood  is  thicker  than  water,'  say  the  good 
aunts  ;  '  and  Clapham  shall  be  just  as  near  to  us  aa 
any  of  our  nephews.' 

"The  poor    little  blind  child   has    been  frightfully 


A    DECISION. 

ill,  and  Mary  Hale  was  her  nurse.  I  wish,  mother, 
you  could  have  seen  the  care  she  took  of  her,  and 
heard  her,  when  she  was  getting  a  little  better,  and 
was  rather  fretful,  singing  long  ballads  to  her  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  and  telling  her  story  after  story. 
I  think,  dear  mother,  you  would  have  loved  her  as 

well no,   not  so   well   as   I   do  ;    no   one  ever  can 

love   as   I   love   Mary  Hale ! 

"  There  it  is  !  a  secret  that  has  been  for  months 
burning  in  my  heart,  and  I  could  not  tell  it,  even 
to  my  mother !  Don't  laugh  at  me  !  don't ;  don't 
reason  with  me.  I  know  very  well  that  I  am  not 
quite  seventeen,  and  Mary  Hale  not  quite  sixteen ; 
and  I  do  not  know  whether  Mary  feels  at  all  as  I 
do.  I  sometimes  guess  and  hope  ;  but,  dear  mother, 
one  thing  I  am  sure  of,  I  shall  never  be  worthy  of 
her." 

• 

In  another  letter,  of  three  months'  later  date,  Harry 
says,  "Dear  mother,  this  letter  will  both  surprise  and 
grieve  you.  Mr.  Bent  has  failed.  After  fifteen  years 
of  untiring  and  successful  industry,  after  the  most 


A    DECISION.  241 

intelligent  conduct  of  his  affairs,  after  having  amassed 
a  fortune  on  which  he  intended  to  retire  next  year, 
he  is  ruined  by  no  fault,  no  misjudgment  of  his 
own,  but  by  having  heavy  responsibilities  for  other 
houses,  which,  in  the  common  course  of  trade,  he 
could  not  have  avoided.  He  announced  the  event  to 
us  yesterday,  calmly,  but  with  much  feeling  ;  and  we 
all  felt  as  if  a  great  misfortune  had  happened  to 
ourselves.  Some  of  the  younger  boys  actually  cried, 
and  the  stoutest  among  us  were  obliged  to  wipe  our 
eyes.  It  is  not  merely,  mother,  the  loss  of  money, 
but  the  loss  of  so  much  power  so  well  used." 

"Our  salaries  have  all  been  paid.  Mr.  Bent,  with 
an  expression  of  approbation  that  did  not  make  it 
easier  to  part  with  him,  mother,  told  me  he  had 
secured  me  a  place  with  a  friend  of  his,  and  an 
advance  of  a  hundred  dollars  upon  my  present  salary. 
YDU  will  stare,  as  did  Mr.  Bent,  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  have  taken  the  offer  into  consideration  till 
to-morrow." 

21 


242  A    DECISION. 

"I  have  declined  the  clerkship,  and  renounced 
city  life  and  mercantile  life  forever.  'Your  reasons, 
Hal  ? '  You  shall  have  them,  my  dear  mother.  From 
the  beginning,  city  life  has  been  utterly  distasteful  to 
me.  While  I  was  living  here,  I  could  not  be  so 
unmanly  as  to  make  you  uncomfortable  with  my  dis 
contents,  and  therefore  I  said  nothing  about  them  ; 
and,  in  truth,  my  discontents  were  rather  prospective, 
rather  from  the  belief  that  my  destiny  was  cast  in 
a  city  than  from  my  present  experience.  No  country 
home  could  have  more  social  virtue  than  this  to 
which  a  kind  Providence  guided  me  ;  to  say  nothing 
of  the  rose  in  my  path  in  perpetual  bloom,  sweetness, 
and  freshness.  But  the  everlasting  noise  and  turmoil, 
to  one  who  was  bred  under  the  shadow  of  Rhigi, 
with  no  sounds  but  sweet  musical  ones  from  dawn  to 
dawn;  walls  of  brick  and  mortar,  instead  of  a  bound 
less  horizon  of  beauty;  narrow  streets,  for  our  planted 
fields,  our  lovely  Salisbury  lakes,  mother,  our  hill  sides, 
and  our  brook  ;  noisome  smells,  for  the  pure,  sweet 
air ;  and  little,  wretched  yards,  for  ample  space,  — 
and  all  their  country  blessings  are  common  bounties, 


A    DECISION.  243 

not  restricted  to  the  rich  man's  hoards,  but  they  are 
the  poor  man's  wealth.  Reason  No.  1,  mother. 

"From  my  first  experience  of  retail  life  in  New 
York,  I  took  a  dislike  to  it  —  perhaps  from  the  dose 
I  took  at  Holson's.  I  presume  it  will  not  be  denied 
that  men  are  physically  superior  to  women,  and  there 
fore  they  should  have  employments  to  develop  and 
exercise  their  mortal  frames,  and  leave  the  retailing 
of  silks  and  laces,  &c.,  to  women  and  girls,  who  are 
really  more  competent  to  this  business  than  we  are. 
And  what  can  be  more  demoralizing,  mother,  than 
life  in  such  a  shop  as  Holson's  ?  There  are  very 
few,  I  trust,  with  such  rascals  for  their  proprietors  ; 
but  there  are  too  many  debased  by  unremitting  labor, 
by  eager,  selfish  competition,  by  petty  frauds  and  false 
showings.  Reason  No.  2. 

"  But  there  is  a  commercial  life  that  affords  a 
field  for  high  intelligence,  extensive  information,  and 
munificent  action.  Yes,  but  exposed  to  unforeseen, 
inevitable,  and  cruel  reverses.  Perhaps  my  opinions 
are  affected  by  the  shock  of  my  kind  friend  Mi. 
Bent's  misfortunes.  Be  it  so.  The  uncertainty  of 


244  A    DECISION. 

mercantile,  —  the  most  uncertain  of  all  uncertain 
affairs,  —  makes  my  reason  JVb.  3. 

"I  might,  perhaps,  attain  a  large  fortune  in  New 
York,  but  I  am  not  ambitious.  I  do  not  think  I 
have  an  average  share  of  the  go-ahead  furor  of  my 
countrymen.  I  never  dreamed  of  being  president  of 
the  United  States,  governor,  judge,  or  even  a  member 
of  Congress,  —  the  prize  in  most  men's  lotteries.  I 
never  desired  to  rise  above  the  condition  in  which 
I  was  born.  That  may  be  your  fault,  dear  mother  ; 
you  have  been  so  contented  with  your  lot,  and  have 
made  it  so  respectable  and  happy.  I  do  not  mean 
any  disrespect  to  my  poor  father,  but  I  had  early 
some  teaching  on  foregoing  actual  competence  for 
possible  wealth. 

"  /  take  after  you,  dear  mother.  I  am  content  with 
the  station  in  which  I  was  born.  My  purpose  and 
hope  is  to  give  to  it,  by  moderate  labor,  the  com 
petence,  dignity,  and  happiness,  cf  which  it  is  sus 
ceptible. 

"Mary  Hale  and  I  were  building  castles  in  the 
air  some  weeks  since.  She  said  that,  build  how  she 


A    DECISION.  245 

would,   hers  settled    down  in  some    pleasant,  country 
neighborhood.    Reason  No.  4,  and  final" 

"Dear  mother,  I  have  received  an  answer  to  a 
letter  which  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Norton  on  Monday.  He 
accepts,  most  cordially,  my  proposition  to  become  his 
apprentice  :  and  offers  me,  besides,  the  place  of  book 
keeper,  which,  in  his  concern,  is  a  light  business,  but 
will  give  me  a  support,  and  the  means  of  adding 
something  to  my  dear  mother's  comforts.  With  Mr 
Norton's  letter  came  one  from  Clapham.  The  fellow 
is  half  wild  with  joy." 

11  Dear  mother,  do  not  blame  me.  I  could  not 
help  it  We  went  down  to  Greenwood  —  old  Mrs. 
Bland,  Nannie,  and  Mary  and  I  ;  and  somehow 
Mary  and  I  strayed  away  by  ourselves ;  and  we  were 
by  Sylvan  Lake,  and  the  words  leaped  from  my  heart 
to  my  lips,  and  I  told  her  I  loved  her  ;  and  she 
confessed  she  loved  me,  and  was  not  ashamed  of  it" 

"  Don't    think    this    is    child's     play,    or    youthful 


240  A    DECISION. 

romance.  You  know  I  am  no  novel  reader,  neither 
s  Mary  Hale.  We  have  loved  one  another  because 
we  could  not  help  it ;  and  when  our*  hearts  were 
melted,  they  ran  together  and  blended  in  one,  like 
metal.  We  shall  always  be  the  happier  for  having  one 
life  from  this  time  forth — the  same  purpose,  the  same 
hope,  the  same  memory.  Mary  cannot  be  better  than 
she  is  ;  but  I  shall  be  the  better  for  having  this 
affection  to  steady  me  —  to  check  every  wild  inclina 
tion,  to  make  me  hate  every  impure  thought.  Mother, 
send  us  your  blessing,  and  we  shall  be  perfectly 
happy." 

The  b,  essing    came,  by   return  of   mail,   and   tney 
wrere  hap  v. 


CONCLUSION.  247 


CONCLUSION. 

"  Nor  prince,  nor  peer,  shall  have  just  cause  to  say, 
God  shortened  Harry's  happy  life  one  day." 

Six  years  have  passed  since  Harry  Davis  went  to 
L to  learn  the  carpenter's  trade  of  Mr.  Nor 
ton.  The  relation  between  them  proved  most  happy  — 
justice  and  liberality  on  the  one  side,  industry  and 
fidelity  on  the  other.  The  friendship  between  Harry 
and  Clapham,  nurtured  in  clouds  and  storms,  throve 
in  sunshine.  The  six  years  have  passed  prosperously 
in  Harry's  outer  and  inner  world ;  and  now,  at  the 
age  of  three-and-twenty,  and  ripened  in  experience 
and  virtue,  we  must  present  him  in  a  new  scene. 

Imagine,  my  dear  readers,  a  village  called  "  Bay- 
side "  (there  is  some  talk  of  changing  its  name  to 
Maryshome)  situated  on  one  of  the  small  bays  of 
Lake  Erie.  The  village  is  on  a  gentle  declivity, 
eloping  down  to  the  bay,  and  flanked  by  a  wood, 


248  CONCLUSION. 

cut  into,  here  and  there,  by  rich  fields  of  wheat, 
where,  as  the  pure  breezes  pass,  you  may  see  the 
stalks  waving  around  the  stumps  of  recently  levelled 
trees.  At  on  3  extremity  of  the  village  is  a  little 
church  of  rare  beauty  of  proportion  and  form,  and 
attached  to  it  a  cemetery,  in  which  clumps  of  the 
original  trees  of  the  forest  are  left  standing,  their 
majestic  growth  giving  to  it  a  fitting  and  beautiful 
solemnity.  At  the  other  extremity  of  the  village  is  a 
rustic  school-house?  with  all  the  modern  improvements 
for  ventilating  and  warming,  and  surrounded  by  a 
play-ground,  as  it  is  modestly  called,  but  which,  with 
its  ten  acres,  its  walks,  and  noble  trees,  and  thrifty 
plantings,  better  deserves  the  name  of  "Park"  than 
many  a  piece  of  ground  that  bears  that  ostentatious 
designation.  In  the  centre  of  the  village  is  a  large, 
convenient  establishment  for  carpentry,  bearing  on  its 
front  the  well-known  names  of  " Davis  Sf  Hale" 
From  the  busy  going  to  and  fro  to  the  work-shop, 
and  from  the  many  hands  to  be  seen  through  its 
open  windows  busily  employed,  it  is  evidently  a  most 
thriving  establishment,  and  the  source  of  supply  to 


CONCLUSION.  249 

die  rising  towns  in  the  neighborhood  A  little  re 
tired  from  the  busy  village  street,  and  separated  by 
a  wide  garden,  are  two  very  small,  neat  houses  ;  so 
sma.1  that  it  is  evident  the  proprietors,  who  have 
laid  out  around  them  grounds  that  have  the  promise 
of  much  future  beauty,  .indulge  the  expectation  of 
enlarging  them.  But  even  these  humble  beginnings 
are  not  without  the  charm  of  proportion  and  fitness; 
and  they,  as  well  as  the  church  and  school-house, 
show  that  Bayside  has  the  advantage  of  a  resident 
draughtsman,  who  has  both  experience  and  taste  in 
architectural  plans.  The  cemetery  and  play-ground 
are  indications,  too,  that  a  thoughtful  and  cultivated 
mind  has  been  employed  there.  What  an  enchant 
ing  world  would  the  up-springing  villages  of  the  rich 
West  present,  if  an  intelligent  sense  of  the  beautiful 
made  the  "  improvements "  in  harmony  with  the  love 
liness  of  nature! 

It  is  twilight  of  a  fine  June  evening,  and  there 
is  a  cheerful  stir  about  the  village  of  Bayside. 
Young  fathers  and  young  mothers,  young  men  and 
maidens,  and  a  few  elderly  people,  (very  few  there 


250  CONCLUSION. 

are  in  these  new  settlements,)  all  dressed  in  their 
best,  are  making  their  way  towards  one  of  the  twin 
cottages.  They  are  gathered  there.  Let  us  look  in. 
The  suite  of  apartments  —  a  kitchen,  bed-room,  and 
parlor,  all  neatly  though  sparingly  furnished  —  are 
hung  with  festoons  of  wild  flowers,  wreaths  around 
the  windows,  wreaths  around  the  doors,  and  wreaths 
around  the  glass  ;  under  it  stands  a  table  with  the 
honored  patrimonial  Bible  on  which  the  Salisbury 
family  was  nurtured.  The  prettiest  wreath  of  all  is 
made  of  mosses  and  white  immortals,  and  it  encircles 
a  bridal  present  from  Mr.  Lyman  —  a  sweet  picture 
of  "little  Lucy." 

A  white  rose  in  full  bloom,  and  a  honeysuckle, 
both  brought  "from  the  east,"  are  trained  around  the 
window,  and  send  in  sweet  odors,  breathing  memories 
of  the  Salisbury  home. 

On  one  side  the  parlor,  and  opposite  "  little 
LucyV  portrait,  stands  an  elderly  matron,  whose  face 
tells  the  story  of  trials  patiently  and  serenely  borne, 
of  a  qubt  conscience,  of  satisfied  expectations,  and 
a  heart  overflowing  with  gratitude  to  Providence. 


CONCLUSION.  251 

Next  her  stands  her  son,  the  crowning  blessing 
of  her  life  —  a  pattern  of  filial  devotion,  of  fraternal 
affection,  and  of  conjugal  happiness.  On  his  other 
side,  and  leaning  on  his  arm,  is  a  lovely  young 
woman,  who  wears  over  her  bright  brown  hair  a 
cap  half  matronly,  half  girlish  —  a  sort  of  token  that  a 
piece  of  furniture  belongs  to  her  which  may  be  seen 
through  the  open  door  of  the  bed-room,  where  a 
cradle  is  jogged  by  a  girl  whose  face  is  bright  with 
happiness,  in  spite  of  the  green  ribbon  over  the  eyes 
which  "  blind  Nannie "  always  wears. 

Standing  in  the  door-way  is  a  man  somewhat 
past  middle  age,  a  perfect  impersonation  of  hilarity. 
He  must  be  a  Frenchman.  There  is  a  sort  of  "J 
told  you  so "  look  upon  his  face.  His  arms  are 
folded,  and  his  fingers  are  playing  a  Uine  on  nis 
arms  which  he  can  hardly  await  the  finishing  of  a 
ceremony  then  going  on  to  enact  with  lips  and  feet. 

It  is  a  bridal  ceremony.  Thrilling  memories, 
blending  with  joy,  gratitude,  and  hope,  have  lit  up 
the  bridegroom's  cheek  with  a  color  so  brilliant,  and 
given  to  his  rich,  dark  eye  such  a  glow,  that  the 


252  CONCLUSION: 

carpenter  of  Bayside  might  be  mistaken  for  a  hero 
of  romance.  But  the  pretty,  blooming  bride  beside 
him,  clad  in  white  muslin,  and  decked  with  white 
roses,  is  no  heroine  — 

"Not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food,"— 

but  fitted  for  life,  —  holidays,  working-days,  and  all, — 
and  an  image  of  its  dearest  contentments.  She  ex 
tends  her  hand  to  receive  the  wedding  ring.  It  is 
of  hair  set  into  a  gold  hoop ;  and  interwoven  in 
the  hair  is  the  name  of  " Jlnnie" 

As  the  bridegroom  slides   it  on  to  her  finger,   he 

recalls  the   dark   day  in  the  prison  of  L when  he 

made  it,  and  breathes  a  fervent  thanksgiving  for  the 
manifold  mercies  that  have  since  been  showered  on 
«*  The,  Boy  of  Mount  Khigi." 


RETURN  TO 

LOAN  DEPA?TFMrN 


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